


Fair Folk and Foul

by HASA_Archivist



Series: The Dûnhebaid Cycle, by Adaneth [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Unusual relationship(s), Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - Joy, Plot - Surprising reversals, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Plants/Environment, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fell fiends still prowl the mountains, and now there is an elven ship offshore. Will Saelon and the remnants of the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil find refuge near the sea, or will they be forced to seek vengeance in alliance with the Dwarves, to return to their homes in safety? The Dûnhebaid Cycle, Part II.<br/><br/>MEFA 2007: Honorable Mention in Races:<br/>Cross-Cultural: General.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When, Where, and Who

Since the number of supporting characters in the Dûnhebaid Cycle continues to grow, a crib sheet may be useful.  After dealing with time and place, I have provided a character list, broken down by race: Men, Dwarves, Elves, and Creatures of Note.  The folk formerly of Srathen Brethil are divided into families, so status and kinship can be more easily seen.  The Dwarves of Gunduzahar are divided into household groups that include close kin, prentices, and followers.

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**Time**

To minimize the bafflement of readers who have not memorized the Sindarin month-names used by the Dúnedain, and also continued repitition in notes, I provide a list below.  For a [fuller treatment of the coordination of the Western Gregorian calendar with those of Third-Age Eriador](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7518&spordinal=1), please follow the embedded link.

                        Dúnedain        Common Speech/Westron  
 **January**           Narwain          Narvinyë  
 **February**         Nínui               Nénimë  
 **March**              Gwaeron         Súlimë  
 **April**                Gwirith            Viressë  
 **May**                 Lothron           Lótessë  
 **June**                 Nórui               Nárië  
 **July**                  Cerveth           Cermië  
 **August**             Urui                 Úrimë  
 **September**       Ivanneth          Yavannië  
 **October**           Narbeleth        Narquelië  
 **November**       Hithui              Hísimë  
 **December**        Girithron         Ringarë

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**Place**

I list here only places of my own invention or naming, in alphabetical order, with translations of their names and information on my sources of inspiritation, where those are particularly strong.  If you do not recognize some other place-name, please consult your favorite Tolkien references.

**Calen Amon** : Sindarin, "green hill."  A Dúnedain holding in the Emyn Uial.

**Gelltunn** : Sindarin, "triumph hill."  A Dúnedain holding in the Emyn Uial.

**Gunduzahar** : Khuzdul, "bold hall."  Veylin's halls some three leagues north of Habad-e-Mindon, so called for its daring location.  It is delved into a flat-topped hill closely resembling [Healabhal Mhor](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/geophotos/01/42/24/1422409_83485a98.jpg), also known as Macleod's Table North, on Skye.

**Habad-e-Mindon** : Sindarin, "shore of the isolated hill, tower"; _mindon_ appears to be equivalent to Gaelic _dun_ , which can mean a hill suitable for a tower or the tower on it.  There is also an echo in Hebudes, the first recorded name of the Hebrides, in Pliny the Elder's _Natural History_ , written in AD 77.  A cliff-backed bay on the shore north of Mount Rerir, where Saelon dwelt long dwelt alone before being joined by refugees from Srathen Brethil.  It has been modelled on a variety of Hebridean locales, principally [Machir Bay](http://www.armin-grewe.com/holiday/scotland2003summer/islay-machir-panorama.jpg) on the isle of Islay and [King's Caves](http://www.blackwaterfoot-lodge.co.uk/images/kingscave.jpg) on the isle of Arran.

**Srathen Brethil** : compound; Scots Gaelic _srath_ , "strath, valley" (compare Sindarin _rath_ , riverbed) and Sindarin _en-brethil_ , "of the birches."  A [glen ](http://blog.robertstrachan.com/wp-content/gallery/photo-a-day/glencoe-lochan.jpg)in the eastern foothills of the Blue Mountains and the westernmost settlement of the Dúnedain, founded by refugees from the fall of Arthedain.

**Sulûnduban** : Khuzdul, "dale of the Lune"; according to Ardalambion, Tolkien considered the possibility that Lhûn/Lune originated as an early borrowing of Khuzdul _sulûn_ or _salôn_ , "to fall, descend swiftly" into Sindarin.  The chief dwarf-mansion of the northern Blue Mountains/Ered Luin, near the headwaters of the River Lune, and the seat of the king of the Firebeards.  It is delved in a mountain based on the spectacular [Suilven](http://www.maths.ed.ac.uk/hall/images/Suilven.gif) of Assynt in the northern Highlands, which somewhat resembles the peak drawn at the head of the River Lune on Tolkien's map.

**Thôntaen** : Sindarin, "pine heights."  This is the name I have given to the northernmost forest west of the Ered Luin on Tolkien's map.  While it is not labeled on any of Tolkien's maps, I have assumed that the tributary running west from the River Lhûn towards this forest is the Little Lune.

**White Cliffs** : the Dwarvish name for **Habad-e-Mindon**.

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**Men**

There are many different kinds of Men in Middle-Earth (LotR, App. F, "Of Men").  Since my stories are based in northwestern Eriador, most of the Men are either Dúnedain, the long-lived descendants of the Númenóreans, or Edain, descendants of the First Age Atani who did not remove to Númenor.  The Dunlendings or Swarthy Men, whose ancestors dwelt in the vales of the White Mountains before the arrival of the Númenórean founders of Gondor, were apparently of Easterling rather than Atani stock; they were usually hostile to the Dúnedain and Edain peoples such as the Rohirrim.  It seems that many of this folk settled in the relatively empty lands around the old border between Arnor and Gondor.

Since kinship was an important bond, I have specified the exact relationship between significant people.  For instance, Gaernath is Saelon's cousin; to be precise, he is her FaFaDaSoSo—father's father's daughter's son's son.  I might simply say Gaernath was her great-aunt's grandson, but in these patrilineal societies, it is important to see who is in the same line.  I follow Tolkien's convention of adding a dagger symbol (†) before the dates of untimely deaths; the names of those who are deceased, from any cause, are italicized.  All dates given are in the Third Age.

Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil  
 **Saelon** (2790–  ): lady of Habad-e-Mindon

**_Halladan_** _(2781–†2847): 15 th lord of Srathen Brethil, Saelon's brother  
_ ** _Núneth_** _(2803–†2847): Halladan's wife  
_ **Rian** (2832–  ): Halladan's daughter  
 **Halmir** (2835–  ): Halladan's son and heir  
 ** _Tathar_** _(2841–†2847): Halladan's daughter_  
 **Tarain** (2818–  ): swordsman serving Halmir  
 **Partalan** (2801–  ): swordsman and harper serving Halmir

**_Nárwen_ ** _(2706–2826): Saelon's maternal grandmother_

**_Haldorn_** _(2784–†2847): Halladan's cousin (FaBrSo)  
_ **Urwen** (2795–  ): Haldorn's wife, born in Emyn Uial  
 ** _Handir_** _(2829–†2847): Haldorn's son_  
 **Eithel** (2832–  ): Haldorn's daughter  
 **Handin** (2837–  ): Haldorn's son  
 **Hanadan** (2841–  ): Haldorn's son  
 **Morwen** (2844–  ): Haldorn's daughter  
 **Níniel** (2848–  ): Haldorn's daughter

**Halpan** (2821–  ): Haldorn's brother  
 **Bereth** (2816–  ): Haldorn's sister

Free Men of Srathen Brethil  
 **Maelchon** (2810–  ): husbandman  
 **Fransag** (2815–  ): Maelchon's wife  
 **Gormal** (2837–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Maon** (2839–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Guaire** (2841–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Ros** (2843–  ): Maelchon's daughter  
 **Uspag** (2845–  ): Maelchon's son  
 **Malmin** (2847–  ): Maelchon's daughter  
 **Gràinne** (2786–  ): Fransag's mother

**_Gede_** _(2842–†2847) : husbandman_  
 **Lis** (2824–  ): Gede's second wife  
 **Mais** (2825–  ): husbandman; Gede's eldest son  
 **Eapag** (2829–  ): Mais's wife  
 **Sonas** (2848–  ): Mais's daughter  
 **Sorcha** (2827–  ): Gede's daughter; Tarain's sweetheart  
 **Deonaid** (2829–  ): Gede's son  
 **Gaernath** (2832–  ): Gede's son; Saelon's cousin (FaFaDaSoSo) and fosterling  
 **Roid** (2834–  ): Gede's son

Cottars of Srathen Brethil  
 **Airil** (2780–  ): gaffer  
 **Artan** (2828–  ): Airil's grandson (SiSo)  
 **Muirne** (2830–  ): Artan's wife  
 **Ailig** (2848–  ): Artan's son  
 **Leod** (2831–  ): Airil's grandson (SiSo)

**Finean** (2799–  ): widower  
 **Unagh** (2829–  ): Finean's daughter  
 **Murdag** (2832–  ): Finean's daughter

**Aniel** (2812–  ): huntsman  
 **Teig** (2808–  ): Aniel's brother and kennelman

Servants  
 **Bred** (2812–  ): manservant  
 **Canand** (2792–  ): drover  
 **Earnan** (2848–  ): Sitheag's bastard son by Maelchon  
 **Fokel** (2809–  ): manservant  
 **Sitheag** (2823–  ): serving woman  
 **Tearlag** (2815–  ): serving woman

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Rangers of the North  
 **Arathorn** (2693–  ): Argonui's father; 12 th Chieftain  
 **Argonui** (2757–  ): 13 th Chieftain of the Dúnedain; great-grandfather of King Elessar  
 **Dírmaen** (2796–  ) : Ranger sent to Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Dírnuir** : Halgorn's father  
 **Dolladan** (2775–  ): Ranger sent to Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Halglas** (2732–  ): Dúnedain lord of Calen Amon in the Emyn Uial; Urwen's father  
 **Halgorn** (2784–  ) : Ranger sent to Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Hanend** (2812–  ) : Ranger sent to Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Meagvir** (2761–  ): second-in-command of group sent to Habad-e-Mindon  
 **Râdbaran** (2746–  ): leader of group sent to Habad-e-Mindon

Some of these names may be _noms de guerre_ , as "Dúnadan" and "Strider" were, cloaking the identity of high-born Rangers; or perhaps they are merely especially apt nicknames that have become use-names.  In any case, Râdbaran ("brown road") and Dolladan ("obscure man") seem unlikely birth-names.

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**Dwarves**

There are seven kindreds or houses of Dwarves: the Longbeards, originally seated in the Misty Mountains; the Firebeards and Broadbeams of the Blue Mountains in the west; and the Ironfists and Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots, whose mansions were further east (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , "Of Dwarves and Men").  All of the Dwarves listed here are Firebeards, unless otherwise specified.

I have supposed that, since they are notoriously clannish, Dwarvish sociopolitical organization is firmly grounded on kinship.  I suggest that kindreds, governed by a king, are further divided into septs or lines (e.g., Durin's Line, _LotR_ , App. A.III, genealogical lineage), led by chieftains ("Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night," said Glóin at the Council of Elrond: _LotR_ , Book 2, Ch. II).  Men often refer to these kings and chieftains as dwarf-lords, but they are not lords in any kind of feudal sense.  Dwarves are singularly adverse to the dominion of others, and the justification for their leaders' authority is parental: "'kings' or heads of lines are regarded as 'parents' of the whole group" (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285).  Rank, such as they have, appears to be based on seniority, hence the priviledged status of Durin the Eldest and his descendants the Longbeards.

Dwarves of Gunduzahar  
 **Veylin** , son of Vali (2708–  ): gemsmith; chieftain of the Firebeards  
 **Arðri** , son of Orð (2791–  ): prentice to Veylin  
 **Oski** , son of Onar (2804–  ): prentice to Veylin

**Vitr** , son of Nali (2724–  ): ironsmith; Veylin's cousin (FaBrSo) and heir  
 **Vitnir** , son of Nali (2735–  ): ironsmith; Veylin's cousin (FaBrSo)  
 **Ketli** , son of Vetil (2729–  ): coalmaster  
 **Skani** , son of Skaði (2802–  ): Vitr's prentice

**Rekk** , son of Ekki (2686–  ): waterwright  
 **Ingi** , son of Iolf (2769–  ): prentice to Rekk

**Nordri** , son of Narthi (2661–  ): stonemason  
 **Nyr** , son of Nordri (2763–  ): stonemason  
 **Nyrað** , son of Nordri (2772–  ): stonemason  
 **Haki** , son of Harin (2687–  ): ironsmith, Nordri's cousin (FaBrSo)  
 **Thiolf** , son of Thorð (2776–  ): prentice to Nordri

**Grani** , son of Guti (2658–  ): carpenter, Nordri's cousin (FaSiSo)  
 **Gamal** , son of Grani (2760–  ): former prentice to Nordri  
 **Thyrnir** , son of Thekk (2798–  ): Rekk (BrSo) and Veylin's nephew (SiSo), prentice to Grani

**Bersa** , son of Berg (2624–  ): cook  
 **Bersi** , son of Berg (2657–  ): coppersmith  
 **Barði** , son of Bersi (2755–  ): coppersmith

**Laufi** , son of Lautnir (2716–  ): glazier, lampwright

Other Dwarves of note  
**_Thekk_ ** _, son of Ekki (2695–†2847): gemsmith; Rekk's brother and Thyrnir's father_

**Oddi** , son of Nidi (2673–  ): stonemason  
 ** _Vestri_** _, son of Oddi (2775–†2847): prentice to Veylin  
_ **Bileg** , son of Balnir (2697–  ): Oddi's cousin

**_Radsvinn_ ** _: Veylin's master_

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Elves  
 **Círdan** : The Shipwright, lord of Lindon  
 **Elladan** (130–  ): son of Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell  
 **Elrohir** (130–  ): son of Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell  
 **Falathar** : coastwarden of Lindon, originally of the Falas; one of the three companions of Eärendil on his voyage to Aman at the end of the First Age  
 **Gwinnor** : Noldor gemsmith

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Creatures of Note  
 **Craec** : a young raven who followed Thekk, now attached to Rekk  
 **Dûnsûl** : Halpan's stallion  
 **Môrfast** : Halladan's prize black stallion


	2. When, Where, and Who

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_We came down among them, but of course_  
_they could see nothing, on their time-scale._  
_Yet they sensed us, stopped, looked up--even into our eyes._  
_To them we were a displacement of the air,_  
_a sudden chill, yet we had no power_  
_over their fear.  If one of them had been dying_  
_he would have died.  The crying_  
_came from one just born: that was the cause_  
_of the song.  We saw it now.  What had we stopped_  
_but joy?_  
_I know you felt_  
_the same dismay, you gripped my arm, they were waiting_  
_for what they knew of us to pass.  
_ _. . ._

_We signalled to the ship; got back;_  
_our lives and days returned to us, but_  
_haunted by deeper souvenirs than any rocks or seeds.  
_ _From time the souvenirs are deeds._

\--Edwin Morgan, "From the Domain of Arnheim"

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"Saelon, something moves on the sea."

Saelon looked up from brewing an infusion of fresh ground ivy for Gràinne's ill-sounding cough, meeting Eithel's troubled gaze.  "What manner of thing?" she asked.  "Near or far?"  Though the girl had lived by the shore for half a year now, the sea was still strange to her, and to the others who had fled here.  Strangeness was fearful to them, after the terrors they had faced.

"Something white, much too large for a swan.  It is still many furlongs away, but it is coming towards us swiftly, riding the waves."

White, and riding the waves but not a bird?  She had dwelt here a score of years, and she had never seen such a thing.  Could it be a ship?  If it were, where could it have come from, save the Havens?  Setting the stoup in the aumbry, Saelon lifted the lid of the kist she had been working on and seized her finest shawl, then found a silver brooch that Rian had left lying.  "Is Halpan about?"

"No.  He is hunting with Aniel and others."

Of course he was; yet it would have been well to have the only man left of the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil at her side to meet Elves from the Havens.  If he was out of reach, he was out of reach.  "Tarain?  Or Partalan?"

"I'm not sure," Eithel replied, looking ever more anxious.  "What is it?"

Saelon touched her slim shoulder with a reassuring smile.  "A ship, I think.  So we may have guests.  Will you send one of the lads to look for my men, and ask your mother to find something we might offer them?  Then come back, pour this off, and take a cup to Gràinne, sweetened with two spoons of honey.  I am going down to the shore, to greet them if they land."

Dashing through the hall and out into the fickle sunshine of Gwirith, Saelon went to the edge of the shelf at the base of the cliff and looked down on the bay, drawing on her shawl and pinning it with Rian's brooch.  Yes, there was an angle of white that must be a sail out among the rolling, iron-grey waves, running quickly in under this fresh northerly breeze.  It was smaller than her imagination had painted it, which was a blessing; they had little enough for themselves, let alone guests.

She hurried down the winding track, wider now and slick from the morning's showers, then across the machair.  Here, too, her paths were much changed, as she had to cut along the edges of the newly sown fields that had replaced near half of the green, flower-starred turf.  "Where are you going, in such a hurry?" cried Gormal, posted with his next younger brother to keep the birds from their father's seed.

"I will tell you when I return, if you do not see for yourself!" Saelon called back, not wishing him to abandon his post to see this curiosity, at least not until they were sure this was a friendly visit.

Tales told that Lindon was allied to her kin, but since Arvedui the last King was lost with the ship sent to rescue him from the Icebay to the north, more aid had come to the Dúnedain from Rivendell in the east.  The Elves of the Havens looked westward, it was said, and attended little to what passed in Eriador.  Yet this coast they had held since it became a coast, with the drowning of Beleriand at the end of the Elder Days.  They might not look favorably on a band of Men settling, without leave, on their land.

If leave was not given, Saelon did not know what they would do.

When she reached the crest of the sandhills, the broken rampart between turf and tide, the ship was in the bay, its swan-breasted prow pointed towards the mouth of the river that reached the sea where the strand met the dark elbow of the northern headland.  It was a beautiful thing, gannet-pale, as easy on the swell as an eider.  Three dark-haired sailors it bore; and the steersman raised a hand to her in greeting as the others trimmed the sail.

She raised hers likewise, and headed for the river.  It was a small stream, with many sandbanks and rocks in its shallow channel, and the breeze was chancy here in the lee of the headland, but the steersman brought the vessel neatly in to where the current had scoured a deeper pool between the heather-mantled slope and a pier of rock at the foot of the first and greatest dune, almost as if he had known the little haven was there.

Perhaps they knew it well.  What were the years she had dwelt here to an Elf?

As one cast a bight of rope about a convenient stone and another took in the sail, the steersman leapt lightly ashore.  "Hail, Gaerveldis!" he greeted her, and came up the steep sand-face as if it had been a firm track.

"Well met," she replied, wits suddenly astray.  "What did you call me?"  He was tall, taller than her brother Halladan had been, and though his face was ageless, that height, and the bright profundity of his green-grey gaze, made her feel like a child again, her elders talking over her head.

He cocked an amused brow.  "You look like a Dúnadaneth, although you have not quite their height.  Do you not know Gaerveldis, 'sea-friend' in Sindarin?  Your habitation here is well known, and though we have not met, we needs must call you something."

She felt as if she must be blushing.  Once or twice she thought she had glimpsed Elves, passing by at a distance, but it seemed they had seen more than they had been seen.  Dropping a curtsey, she said, "Yes, I am one of the Dúnedain, of the folk of Srathen Brethil, east of the mountains.  Saelon is my name."

"I am Falathar, of the Havens."  He looked past her, and turning her head, she saw Maelchon, Bred, and Leod watching from a distance with Bereth, who was vainly trying to order Gormal and Maon home.  "Rumors reached us of some ill hereabouts, and Círdan sent me to see what was afoot."

Behind him, on the other side of the river, Saelon saw Handin drifting down the slope from where he had left the flock, his sling in his hand.  The other Elves were watching him and grinning.  "The ill has been greater elsewhere than here, but yes, we have been sore troubled."

"We," Falathar said, no longer amused.  "One guest is little burden, and we would not grudge the sea to one who loves it so well as you.  But this—" he indicated the ploughed fields with a graceful gesture and an austere look "—this is cause for grievance."

"It is a grief to me as well," Saelon assured him earnestly, "especially at this season, when the flowers are so fair.  Yet my people must have corn."

"Must they have it here?"

"If you can tell me of a fitter place, I am willing to take them elsewhere—after the harvest.  We have no more seed corn."

"Why can they not return whence they came?" he asked coolly.  "We have not heard that the Dúnedain throve so well that there was not land enough east of the Lhûn."

Saelon met those unsettling, ancient eyes.  "We know we are interlopers, lord, and must beg pardon.  But will you not hear what drove them hither before you judge?"

"I am a coastwarden, not a lord," Falathar corrected her.  "Círdan will decide.  What would you have him know?"

"It is not a short tale."  Saelon sighed.  Would it be better or worse for him to see their hall?  She did not know enough of Elves to even guess.  "Will you have it here, or will you come up to the hall for some refreshment, you and your companions?"

He swept the whole arc of the bay with his gaze, lingering over the foot of the southern cliffs perched high above the machair, cream-colored under the westering sun.  She wondered how many people had gathered there, to gape at a safe distance.  "I will come," he said, "but my crew will remain here."  He called back to them in his own tongue, charging them to wait until the tide reached the flood, then faced her again.  "Lead on," he invited, hand extended towards the distant foot of the track.

As they walked together in silence, Saelon wondered what thoughts were passing behind those clear, farsighted eyes.  Beside him, she felt small, drab, and younger than she had since her formidable grandmother had died; she was resolved to speak no Sindarin, ashamed of the barbarousness of her accent.  The pride of lineage that set her kin above Maelchon and Mais seemed nothing, a silly vanity, beside the fair power of this Elf.  Had her forefathers truly kept company with folk such as this, or were the legends vanity, too?  That she had some slender kinship with his kind was almost inconceivable.  Or had they fallen so far?

The others fell back before him, in awe and trepidation.  It was some consolation to see that even Urwen, for all her height and nobility, had difficulty looking Falathar in the face when she greeted him on the cliff-shelf and invited him in, lady to Saelon's lord.

When he passed through the entrance and stood in the hall, he stopped sharply and stared around him.  "This is dwarven work, and new," he declared in surprise, curt.

Saelon's heart clenched.  How could she have forgotten there was blood spilt between the Elves and the Dwarves?  "Yes," she agreed, as Urwen stepped back, distancing herself.

"Who did the work?"  Falathar reached out to touch the birches carved beside the doorway.

"Dwarves led by Veylin, son of Vali."

"You had the means to pay them for such work?" he asked, with raised brows.

"Master Veylin owed me a great debt."  Saelon gestured towards the one good seat.  "Will you sit?"

He studied her anew, and the keenness of his curiosity was like facing the wind that blew without.  "If Dwarves come into this," he said, with great reserve, "that may be best."

Once he was seated, Urwen brought him cakes of hazelnuts and honey, and a cup of Bereth's cowslip wine.  "I am sorry we have nothing better to offer," she murmured apologetically.  "When you have heard of our plight, perhaps you will pardon this as well."

He scented the cup and hazarded a sip, then set the wine decidedly aside.  "Fate must have been cruel to you indeed," he said dryly.

"A cup from the spring, Urwen," Saelon suggested.  Granted it was the only drink in the place beside whey and water, but how could she have offered such harsh young stuff to an Elf?  "He will need something to wash the cakes down with."

When the mortified woman had withdrawn, Falathar baldly prompted, "I would like to catch the tide, Saelon."

Taking a seat on the nearest bench, she began.  "My brother Halladan was lord in Srathen Brethil, a glen on the eastern flanks of the Ered Luin, where our kin have dwelt since soon after the fall of Arnor.  Late last spring, he came to warn me that evil things were abroad in the mountains between us.  He wished me to return to Srathen Brethil with him, fearing for my safety, but I believed there was more security near the sea and remained.  In the early autumn, my young kinsman Gaernath, who I had taken in fosterage, happened across a dreadful scene while hunting: something had attacked a party of Dwarves, slaying two of them and gravely wounding the third."

"Here on the coast?" Falathar exclaimed, greatly surprised.

That evil would strike by the sea, or that Dwarves would approach it so near?  "On the southern edge of a moor a league north and east, inland.  From the savagery of the attack and other signs, I believe it was the same evil my brother had spoken of; yet the Dwarves wounded it, perhaps to the death, for we have seen nothing more of it here.  We brought the wounded Dwarf here and tended him—that is how Master Veylin came to owe me such a debt.  A raven that speaks, who kept company with them, brought his kin here soon afterwards; Gaernath rode to Srathen Brethil and brought my brother and his men."  There was no need to tell that Gaernath had fled in fear from Dwarves hot for vengeance, who had mistaken them for foes.  That had all been requited, more than amply.

"Again Halladan pressed me to return to Srathen Brethil, but these _raugs_ had followed the herds down from the braes and had begun to prey on lone steadings there.  These things are night-walkers, and may be akin to trolls, though Veylin maintains they are not the same.  Dwarven weapons bite on them, but not lesser blades.  They rend folk and beast with fang and talon, breaking them with terrible strength."  In her mind's eye, she could still see that gore-spattered patch of greensward where they had found Veylin and his companions.  She did not think she would ever forget it.

Urwen returned as Saelon strove to push that ugliness away, replacing Falathar's cup and taking a seat a little further off.  Taking up the cup, he said, "Yet you remained here."

He was the first person who did not sound as if they thought her mad for staying.  "As I said," Saelon repeated, lifting her eyes to his, "I felt there was more security by the sea."  There might be a glint of sympathy in his gaze, but there was no comfort; still, it helped clear the memory of horror.  "And," she admitted, wishing she was in her old cave, where the soothing sound of the surf had almost always been with her, "I have no peace when I am from it.

"Halpan, my cousin and the only man grown now left of the Dúnedain of Srathen Brethil, chose to stay with Gaernath and I when the others returned.  Near the end of Narbeleth, his sister; and Urwen—" Saelon gestured towards her "—his brother's widow, and her children fled to us."  She considered the former beauty from Emyn Uial, haggard now from her travails at the end of the year and caring for her new daughter: many suspected she had had some foresight of what was to come, though she still refused to speak of it.  Urwen's face was composed but her eyes were fierce, as if forbidding Saelon to mention the rumors.

Falathar flicked his glance between them, but before he could ask some pointed question, Saelon pushed on.  "In Hithui, my brother sent his son and eldest daughter to me; in Girithron, his sworn man brought me word of his death, with his helm and his charge that I should lead what was left of our people.  The last few families who held by their oaths to the bitter end came to me as well.  Only forty-four out of more than three hundred are here.  The rest fled to our kin in the east, or have been slain, or lost in the wild.  How many others have found refuge we do not know."

"That is ill indeed," Falathar said somberly after a time, folding his hands and resting his chin on them as he regarded her.  "It is to be hoped that word has reached the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, so he might send you aid.  Although," his gaze went back to the panels of birches by the door, "you seem to have found some nearer to hand."

"This is Master Veylin's ransom," she told him, trying to guess how ill the Elf thought of Dwarves.  "He visited soon after all these broken folk fell on me, and found me in despair of housing them against the winter gales.  Since he wished to be free of his obligation to me, we soon came to an agreement."  He need not know of the agreements they came to after Veylin had heaved the price of his life off his heart.

"I am sure," Falathar replied, sharply scornful.  "Though without the debt, your need would have moved him not at all.  The Dwarves are not known for kindness."

If her own fate only had rested in his hand, she would have told him the same was true of Elves.  "If these were not folk of honor, they could have avoided payment easily enough, since I knew not where to seek them.  We did not find them grudging."

"The work is fine," he allowed, grudging himself.  "Very fine.  Though that may be no more than their pride in their own craftsmanship.  So many must be cramped in such a small dwelling."

"Would you have had it larger?" Saelon asked, cocking an eyebrow.  He did not seem so high now, and she wondered if the generosity of the Dwarves had made him ashamed of his pitiless words by the river.

Falathar laughed suddenly, his smile breaking out bright as the sun after a spit of hail from dark but wind-driven clouds.  "Indeed, no!  I suppose I should be glad to find you satisfied so modestly.  What then would you ask of Círdan?"

"Leave to dwell here and the use of land and sea to keep ourselves, including tillage, at least until the Chieftain can advise us."  Saelon gestured around the hall at those who had found the courage to come in, knowing that more were peeping from behind the doors of their chambers, and not only children.  "They cannot go home to Srathen Brethil, and the _raugs_ roam the mountains, making the ways east perilous.  Few would have the heart to dare such a journey, so soon after the terror of last autumn, and we have only a handful of men to protect them on the way."

"If you have the wisdom not to be a second Haleth, I doubt we will drive you to it," he assured her.  "We will make sure the Chieftain hears of your plight."

If only to be rid of them the faster.  "That would be a help indeed, since word may have miscarried on the road, and I can spare no men to take the message."

Rising, Falathar sketched a brief bow.  "I must return to my ship."

Saelon stood.  "Take our thanks to Lord Círdan for the concern that brought you to us."  Whether that was concern for them or concern for his own; it mattered no more than whether Veylin had aided them in friendship or his own interest.  With this burden upon her, she would be grateful for whatever help came their way.

"I will."

She walked from the hall with him.  Outside, the clouds had returned, with a grizzle of rain.  As she drew her shawl closer about her, Falathar said, "You need not accompany me to my ship.  Unless," he added, tone light but eyes displeased, "you do not trust me to find my way thither."

"I am going to the shore in any case," Saelon told him, starting down the track.  "Might you answer a question for me?"

With his long legs, he was beside her in a few strides, gracefully picking his way around the worst of the mire.  "What is the question?"

"What do you call this place?"  She indicated the bay with a sweep of her hand.  "When I was alone, it did not much matter, but with so many eyes turning hither, it would be good to know."

"Habad-e-Mindon."

They had left the others back at the cliff, save for Gormal and Maon dashing back to the fields, looking as if their father had been angry with them.  Rooks scattered before them, rising from the furrowed earth.  "Is the sea any protection from such evil?"

Falathar regarded her gravely.  "Why did you think it might be?"

They walked the breadth of the field before Saelon muttered, "I do not know."  Did he not know, or would he not tell her?

"After all these years," he said, "you no longer trust the sea?"

"I do not trust myself."  It was one thing to risk herself for what might be no more than a fancy spawned by too many tales and fattened on too much solitude, and another to hold all these folk here.  She did not like this Elf, but who else might know?  He certainly would not hesitate to belittle her if she was being presumptuous.

"You do not trust yourself?  Or they do not trust you?"  Falathar glanced back towards the cliff.  "Or have you been listening overmuch to Dwarves?" he added, with a pointed smile.

Saelon remembered Veylin astride his pony, the surf around its fetlocks as he brooded over an ancient shell, an echo in stone.  "You think they do not hear the sea?"

"Not if they can help it!  I am astonished," he admitted candidly, "that they would stay this close long enough to delve your hall, small though it is."

"Indeed?"

That nettled him; his look reminded her of her grandmother when she would finally lose patience with what she called pertness, the sere, measured bite of august age—strange on that unlined face.  "Do not fish for counsel if you are not willing to give heed to what you catch."

She bowed her head.  "Your complaint is just," she admitted, then, perhaps because she could not see his daunting eyes, added, "Yet before you ask me to think ill of the only folk who have aided us, you might give me some reason to think better of you."

"Will you not even give me time to carry your message, Child of the Sun?"  The Elf sounded like a vexed parent as he halted by the river's bank.  "You are the one who asked not to be judged out of hand.  You may think my words harsh, yet I speak as I find.  Do not choose friends in haste, lest the long years teach you to regret your choice."

If they did not have some friends, they would not have many more years, short or long.  How could she not choose in what he would consider haste?  There was, however, nothing to be gained from arguing with him, like a petulant child.  "Pardon my churlishness, Falathar," she sighed.  "I am over my head here, and I know it.  I flail towards such land as I can see."

"Then," he said, and Saelon wondered how she had thought him pitiless before, "you will exhaust yourself chasing shadows.  Set a course, or give yourself to the sea."  She stared at him, bewildered and not a little frightened by the intensity of what was behind his eyes.  Was this truly no more than a coastwarden?  "You are paddling in the shallows, Gaermendis," he told her.  "If you cannot keep your wits about you, stay out of the depths.  Farewell."

"Farewell," she replied weakly.  When she looked up from her curtsey, he was already in the ship, whose prow was pointed towards the sea.  The river's current carried it away until the wind caught the sail.

There was a touch on her hand, and she started wildly.  Hanadan drew back, looking almost as frightened as she felt.  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He held up a long silver-grey wing feather.  "Don't you like the Elves?" he asked in a small, unhappy voice.

"Oh, Hanadan," she choked and, dropping to her knees, caught him to her, grateful for the touch of mortality.

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Author's Notes

This is the second story in the Dûnhebaid ("Westshores") cycle, which is set on the north coast of the Ered Luin during the mid-29th century of the Third Age of Middle-earth.  As explained in the notes for the first story, _Rock and Hawk_ , this cycle takes its sense of place from the West Highland coast of Scotland and draws heavily on the archaeology and traditional lifeways of that region, as Tolkien drew on the languages and lifeways of the English West Midlands.  For those who are interested, links to images of some of the real places that inspired me can be found in the entries under Places in the "When, Where, and Who" at the end of this story.

At the request of several readers, I am trying to cut down on the "dictionary" notes; if you find an arcane or oddly used word that is not clarified in the notes at the end of the chapter, please go to the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1).  Since many of these words are used repeatedly in my stories, putting them in one place seemed simpler than continually repeating them.

A bibliography of important scholarly sources and reference materials can be found at the end of the author's notes for _Rock and Hawk_ , and, as always, I invite those with questions or a desire to debate particular points to contact me.  The major addition to my resources for this story were the fair folk of the Garden of Ithilien, who have provided good fellowship, more than a few laughs, and useful commentary on my drafts, despite their frequently ardent preference for Elves.  Special thanks go out to Gwynnyd, for advice on mead and _tafl_ , and to Súlriel, for sharing her equine expertise.  Any mistreatment of beasts in this work, however, is entirely the responsibility of the author, for creating characters who would do such things.

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**Ground ivy** ( _Glechoma_ _hederacea_ ): a medicinal herb used for respiratory complaints.

**Furlong** : a unit of length 220 English yards, or nearly 210 _rangar_ or Númenorean yards.  There are 8 furlongs in a mile, and not quite 5 in a kilometer.

**The Havens** : the harbors on the Gulf of Lhûn, the Grey Havens at Mithlond being the best-known.

**Aumbry** : a recess in a wall; a cupboard.  This is a term Tolkien used when describing the fittings of a dwarven hall.

**Brooch** : today this is usually a purely ornamental pin; in the past, it was a sturdy (and often ornamented) clothing fastener.

**Lindon** : the Elven lands around the Gulf of Lhûn and the neighboring coasts; the kingdom of Gil-galad in Second Age, where those of the Noldor who did not return to Valinor mingled with the Sindarin folk of Círdan and some remnants of Doriath.  Círdan was its lord in the Third Age.  In the north, it extended as far east as the River Lune/Lhûn, but not north of the Little Lune.

**Gannet** ( _Sula bassana_ ): [a goose-sized seabird](http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2057/2120362928_b03b94047e.jpg) that dives from a height to catch fish.

**Eider** ( _Somateria mollissima_ ): a mussel-eating [sea duck](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/38/Somateria_mollissima_male_female.jpg), whose down (which can be collected from [their nests](http://post.queensu.ca/~pearl/pics/Tern%20Island%20pics/Common%20eider%20eggs8.jpg)) is prized for its insulating qualities.

**Dúnadaneth** : Sindarin, "woman of the West."

**Brae** : Scots, hillside.

**Haleth** : for a time in the First Age, the leader of the third tribe of the Edain, who were afterwards known as the People of Haleth.  After the death of her father and brother, she led her people, against the will of many, through the perilous lands on the borders of Doriath to the Forest of Brethil.

**Grizzle** : to cry quietly and fretfully; fitful rain lighter than a shower.

**Rook** ( _Corvus frugilegus_ ): a [relative of the crow](http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2156/2203935479_9c11954612_b.jpg), with a grey beak and lower face; it frequents farmland, eating grain and insects.


	3. Debateable Land

Wrætlic is þes wealstan; wyrde gebræcon         _Wonderous is this wall of stone; shattered  
                                                                                 by Fate  
_burgstede burston; brosnað enta geweorc.       _the city broken; the work of giants decayed.  
_ Hrofas sind gehrorene, hreorge torras,              _Its roofs are falling, towers ruined,  
_ hrungeat berofen  hrim on lime                          _gate rungs destroyed, rime on lime  
_ scearde scurbeorge  scorene, gedrorene,          _the_ _storm shelter battered, rent, collapsed,  
_ ældo undereotone.  Eorðgrap hafað                  _undermined by age.  The earth has grasped  
_ waldend wyrhtan, forweorone, geleorene,         _rulers and wrights, perished, passed away,  
_ heardgripe hrusan, oþ hund cnea                       _bitter grip of the earth, while a hundred  
                                                                               generations  
_werþeoda gewitan.                                            _of men pass away._

\--"The Ruin"

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The leisurely clop of ambling hooves up beyond the curve of the river did not disturb Saelon as she gathered cuckoo-flower in the watermeadows.  In this fine Lothron weather, now that the crops were sown and food easier to find, many were venturing abroad to explore beyond the cliff shelf and bay.  Just yesterday, hadn't she seen Tarain and Sorcha returning from the direction of the oakwood?  Tarain had flushed, but since they were on two mounts rather than one, she had merely lifted an eyebrow and done her best to restrain a grin.  Mais could be angry that his sister was going about with a landless man, but Sorcha was a shrewd lass; unless she set her sights on Halpan or waited for Gormal, the only unmarried men were landless.  The lord's favored swordsman was a catch indeed, in these waters.  Humming the refrain of the song for golden-headed lads, Saelon moved on to the next patch of tiny pink blooms.

One of the hooves struck a stone with the ring of metal.  She stopped still and listened with closer attention, since the osiers and alder brakes were too leafy to see through.  Few of their beasts had been shod to begin with, and now only two of the horses had any shoes at all.  Halpan had been grumbling about it, after Dûnsûl came up stone-lame, and wondering whether the Dwarves were skilled at farriery.

Someone spoke low, a deep rumbling voice in a harsh, guttural tongue; and another answered shortly.

It seemed Halpan would have a chance to ask.  Saelon picked her way through the brakes towards the clearing that would give her a glimpse of the track.  Vitr and Vitnir had come between gales in Nínui, talking closely with Maelchon and Mais for two days before setting to work on a plough and the metalwork needed to repair harness.  She had left them to strike their own bargains—Maelchon was a canny husbandman, and unlikely to overreach himself—but she had gathered that a portion of the future harvest had been promised in return.  Perhaps they were visiting to see how the crops fared, or if other work was needed.  She wondered what Halpan would be willing to trade for horseshoes.

Three ponies came past the hazel thicket, but the two riders were not hooded in blue.  The first, gazing towards the rustling of her movement with Dwarven suspicion, was like a patch of autumn dropped into the freshness of spring, the strong russet of his hood well-matched to his flowing beard; and the second wore the dark pine green that so brought out the fiery hue of his curlier beard.  "Veylin!  Thyrnir!" she called, waving.  "Welcome!"

"Ah, it's you," Veylin chuffed, smiling, as she went to join them.  "I was wondering if we were about to be ambushed by Hanadan, or perhaps Maelchon."

"Maelchon would have made much more noise," Thyrnir pointed out, drawing off his hood and sketching a bow.  "At your service, Lady."

"At yours and your family's," Saelon replied, matching his formality.  She looked at the pack pony, which seemed loaded with little save delving tools.  "Were Vitr's terms so demanding?" she asked lightly.  "I have not heard Maelchon complain."

"If Vitr and Maelchon are content," Veylin said, almost primly, "we should not speak of their terms."  But his deep-set eyes gleamed like the copper on his braids and a corner of his mouth twitched beneath his beard.  "How have things fared with you, Saelon, since we parted?"

She fell in beside his pony as they started down the track again.  "Well and ill, as must be expected.  We have lost no one, although everyone is heartily sick of eating seaweed and fish.  Lambing and calving was better than we hoped, but Maelchon wishes he could have broken more land for sowing.  Yet even the fields we have were far more than the coastwarden from Lindon liked to see."

"Elves of the Havens have been here?"  Veylin's smile disappeared.  "What did they want?"

"To see how many Men were camped in their dooryard, and find out if we intend to remain," Saelon said dryly.  "Rumors had reached them of our troubles."

"Is that what they said?" Thyrnir asked, as Veylin frowned, his brawny hands knotting on the leather of his reins.

"Not in so many words."

When Veylin remained silent, Thyrnir told her, "More than rumor reached them.  Some of us journeyed south early in the year, to see what our kin might know of the fiends, and left report as we passed through Mithlond."  He seemed to be watching his uncle closely from the corner of his eye.  "We thought, given the ties between your peoples, that they might aid you."

Saelon sighed, remembering her meeting with Círdan's emissary with deep dissatisfaction, and not all of it for the Elf.  "Perhaps they will.  At present they have promised to send word to the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, since I have asked leave for us to remain here until he can give us counsel."

"You do not need their leave," Veylin growled.  "Círdan's word does not run north of the Little Lune."

"That is east of the mountains," Thyrnir reminded him.  "We have never challenged their claim to the coast."

"They claim it, but have they done anything with it?  How can they be injured if we dwell here?"

This land was disputed?  Veylin, too, was new-settled on this side of the mountains.  She wondered what Falathar would have had to say about that.  "In fairness," she said, "I have seen them, sometimes, though we never met nor spoke until this spring.  This is a fair land in summer, and a rich one in autumn."

"So they wander here and there.  Let them wander elsewhere for a time."

"Please," Saelon asked, laying a hand on his forearm, "let it lie.  I can ill afford to be on poor terms with any of my neighbors."  When Veylin turned his scowl on her hand and raised his smouldering eyes to hers, she quickly removed it.  She did not understand how it could offend, but she valued his good will too much to try a Dwarven temper.  "Who knows when we might hear from the Chieftain," she continued, shaking her head doubtfully, "or whether he will be able to aid us with more than counsel.  Yet it is his place to treat with the Lord of Lindon on our behalf."

"True," Veylin admitted sullenly.  They continued on in dour silence to where the track reached the machair; there, he halted his pony and faced her.  "Promise me, Saelon," he charged her, "that you will send me word if there is more talk of your right to dwell here, whether with the Elves or your Chieftain.  We are allies.  I have an interest in this."

"Of course," she assured him, wondering what his place might be among his people.  He had told her, back in the autumn, that he was not a king; and the folk he brought to delve their hall had not treated him as a lord; but she could not believe he was a common Dwarf.  "If you will tell me where we might find you."  For all she knew was that his halls were now no more than three hours' ride distant.

His stern earnestness broke with an abashed cough.  "Hhm, yes," he muttered, with a wry, almost apologetic quirk of his mouth.  "It would be difficult, otherwise."

"So I would guess, since our men regularly scour the country for game, and none have mentioned meeting with your folk."

That was most definitely a glint of self-satisfaction in his eye.  "We are a private people, as you know," Veylin murmured, casting his gaze around as if someone might be concealed among the blades of grass.  "So you will not be offended if I ask you to keep the knowledge close."

Among Men concealment on such a point would have been cause for deep suspicion.  Why would you hide from other folk, save known enemies?  Still, Dwarves were notoriously secretive; Veylin had paid his debt faithfully without prompting, and these Dwarves were proving helpful neighbors.  What use would offense be?  "If you wish.  I would not want my people to annoy you, and," she said drolly, reflecting how pleasant the years had been when she had lived here alone and private, "well I know how troublesome they can be."

"You are not enjoying lordship?" Veylin asked, brows raised.

"No.  The foolishness of folk is a never-ending wonder."

Veylin gave a great guffaw, then snapped his mouth shut and sniffed; even that beard did not quite cover his smirk.  "So I have found myself."  While she was trying to decide if he was laughing at her—or at Men—he briskly said, "Near two leagues north of where Gaernath raised the cairn for Thekk and Vestri, there is a high tableland, half a league from the sea.  Do you know it?"

A great round of green with steep sides of dark, harsh stone; you could see for miles from its level top, if you were willing to toil up the slopes.  She had visited it a few times during her early years along the shore, but had seldom gone so far lately, even before the _raugs_.  "Yes."

"There is a rill on the northwest.  Follow it to where it falls over the shelf."

"Those small courses often go dry in summer," Saelon warned, lest they depend on it for water.

"Rekk swears this one will not."  Veylin kicked his pony back into motion.  "Speaking of water, is that still all you can offer thirsty travelers?"

"No," she assured him.  "Bereth has put up some cowslip wine."

"Cowslip wine?"  His look was dubious.  "I think I should ask what cowslip is."

"The very early flower, yellow, like a primrose."

"Nothing to do with cows, then?" Thyrnir pressed.

"Only that cows eat them.  It is a virtuous herb, good for the overwrought, and poor skin."

"Is the wine any good?" Veylin asked, more to the point.

"The coastwarden of Lindon did not think so."

Veylin stroked his beard thoughtfully.  "I disagree with Elves on many things, but never on wine."  Turning in the saddle, he tugged loose a thong and hefted a skin in his hand.  "A skin of Dwarven mead for the story."

"Done."  He pitched it to her, and she tucked it into her basket alongside the cuckoo-flower with a laugh and a shake of her head.  "You would have had the story in any case," she told him.

"And we would have drunk the mead in any case.  But now you can be the resourceful Lady, with unsuspected means for doing honor to guests in her hall."

"Honor to Dwarves."  Rather than a repeat of their shame before Falathar.

"You are learning," he observed with satisfaction.

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Habad-e-Mindon, the Elf had told her.  Shore of the Tower.

Like all Dwarves, Veylin found the Elvish propensity for giving everything names in their own tongue grating; resentment, however, came from the fact that their names stuck.  They might not be the true names, but it gave them a certain power nonetheless: Elvish names made it sound like Elvish land.

He had first heard of the tower as he lay in Saelon's cave with his head half-cracked by the fiend that slew Thekk and Vestri, for then she had no name for this place that she would tell, describing its features instead.  It had been of no account amid the first flare of vengeful wrath and the perilous misunderstandings of those days, or during the busy delving of his last visit; not that he had been fit to climb this height.  Even now it was a stiff pull for his lame leg, but he set his teeth and braced himself with his stick when he must.  A year ago, he would not have given so short a slope a thought . . . but he felt his luck with every grinding step.  The knee would never be right again, it was true; but it would carry him, and the more he tried it, the stronger the leg became.  So long as he could still hunt gems, he could bear the pain.

Still, he was glad, when he got to the top, to sit on one of the fallen blocks and look down on the shape of the land.

The tower had been well-sited.  This great boss of schist overtopped the inland-sloping limestone of the cliffs beside, so that it commanded as wide a view as the roof of his new hall.  If he had wished, he might have come on his pony by going roundabout, up the river to where the cliff failed and then along the clifftop, for a grassy slope ran down to it.  It seemed the common way; feet had begun to beat a track into the turf.  A craggier ridge trailed away to the southeast, losing itself in peat hags before it reached the knees of the mountains.  On the south and west, rugged slopes ran down to the restless heave of the waves that covered half the world.  Nesting seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries piercingly raucous.

Veylin rose and circled the ruin, which was little more than dwarf-high in places, until he found the gap that had once been a doorway.  Within the broad ring of stone, he need not look on the sea; its sound and that of the birds was muffled; and the hollow held the warmth of the sun secure from the wind.  Finding a better seat, he leaned back against the wall, took out his pipe, and, as he filled it, turned his thoughts to what had brought him so near this awesome water.

The hall had been delved, steps had been taken to secure local supplies—if the Elves would leave these folk alone!—and his short forays into the nearby hills had produced enough gems and ore to justify the move to the others, as well as drawing attention from his chosen lodes.  Only Thyrnir knew where they lay and how rich they were; Rekk was content to know there were fine gems nearby and asked no more.

But getting to them . . . that was a greater problem than he had realized.  When the sea was out, it was not that difficult.  For him, at least, though Thyrnir was loathe to stand with nothing between him and the waves but a stretch of flat sand, no matter how wide.  The sea was not always out, however, and it was vexing to ride all that way to find the surf crashing onto the rock he wished to mine.  A half-dozen times this spring they had gone by devious ways to the opal dykes, yet only once had he been able to reach the stretch where the stones clustered.  Granted, the score of opals he rescued from the hammer of the Lord of Waters was payment enough for all the trips, but the oftener they went, the more likely they were to be seen.  And he would not subject Thyrnir to the sea more than he must.

What could he do?  To watch the sea long enough to learn what he needed was, he knew, beyond his strength of heart and will.  Therefore he must ask someone versed in sea-lore.  He might ask the Elves when next he went to Mithlond . . . but such a question from a Dwarven gemsmith would kindle their curiosity.  There were a few Noldor there still, who delighted in gems nearly as much as himself and would welcome an excuse for hopeful prospecting.  No; that was closed to him as well.  It was bad enough that Thyrnir had turned their long-sighted eyes to these northern shores, thinking they might trouble themselves over the plight of mortals—a tender beardling's indiscretion.

There was only one person he knew who had the knowledge he sought, who was not an Elf.  But sometimes she saw nearly as far into things as they did, and already knew more of him and his affairs than was proper.  When he had been standing on the shore yesterday, glaring at the surging grey-green water that drowned his treasure, coming here to seek her counsel had seemed wise.  Now he was not so sure.  Things were becoming as tangled as a carelessly handled chain.

"Ah," a mellow woman's voice broke into his brooding, over his head.  "I knew I smelled smoke."

Glancing sharply up, he saw Saelon peering over the top of the tumbled wall.  "I was turning various matters over in my mind."  He leaned back again and considered the spare, dark-haired woman through narrowed eyes.  Naming called; but he had not even thought her name.  "Pipe-weed is a friend to thought."

Coming around to the gap, she sniffed the air.  "What herb is that?  I do not know it."

Like the rest of the folk here, she was thinner than she had been, but while her taller Dúnedain kin looked gaunt, she had been tempered into wiry toughness.  She had a basket settled against her hip, half full of greenery and flowers, as she had yesterday.  Herbs were her ores, part of her healing craft.  "I know it only as pipe-weed," he told her.  Reaching into his pouch, he drew out the small bag that held his supply; taking some, he offered it to her.  "It comes from the Shire and Bree."

Rubbing the dried leaf between her fingers, she smelled it, then delicately touched a fingertip to her tongue.  After a moment of consideration, she spat, then took an herb from her basket, chewing it as if to cleanse the taste.  "Not unlike some of the lobelias," she judged.  "Too much would be unwise, I think."

How much was too much?  "I have smoked it for fifty years, without harm."

Saelon shrugged.  "For a Man, then."

There was that.  She knew the frailties of her race well, but did not expect Dwarves to share them.  He watched as she crossed to the other side of the ring to finger the leaves of some plant, her mind turning back to her work.  Water and herbs were her passions; she seemed to care no more for stone than he did for greenery.  Her drab shawl was even pinned with a thorn rather than a brooch.  If she owned a jewel other than Rekk's chain, its gold twined in the windblown umber of her hair, her sole mark of lordship, he had not seen it.

"Will you tell me," he asked, "about the tide?"

She turned to stare at him, as if misdoubting her ears.  "Whatever for?"

Veylin clenched his teeth on his pipestem.  Her disinterest in riches might be some surety, but he had not considered how the request would strike her, coming from one who avoided the sea.  Mere interest was no excuse; the curiosity of Dwarves was never idle.  He had forgotten how keen her gaze could be, like a hunting falcon's.  "Must I say?"

"No," she hastened to assure him.  After a pause that lay heavy between them, she asked, "What would you know?"

He had said too much; but to say no more would make much of the question.  If he must risk his secret, she was less of a danger than the Elves.  "Is there a pattern to its rise and fall?"

"It follows the moon."  Saelon still considered him closely, brows slightly knit.  Veylin was reflecting that, as in all matters of craft, vague questions brought answers of little worth, when she continued, "It goes from flood to ebb and back twice in a little more than a day, near as much longer as it takes for the moon to rise between one day and the next.  The tide is at its highest and lowest when the moon is full and again at dark; middling at the quarters.  That is the pattern, though wind and storm can alter it."

"Very interesting," he rumbled thoughtfully, gazing at her as he puffed on his pipe.  That was exactly what he wished to know.  So exactly that he wondered how much she already knew . . . or was it only surmise?

"There is something I would know," she said slowly, in return.

"What?"  Was she about to disappoint him, prying for more than he was willing to reveal?

She laid a hand on the upper course of the slighted wall.  "Anything about this ruin.  It has always caught my fancy, but it does not speak to me.  Can you tell aught from the stones?"

Relief widened his smile.  "You like such riddles?"

"My mother's mother knew many tales of the Elder Days, and taught me to love them.  It is not easy, though, to believe that such things happened on this same earth we tread."  She rubbed her thumb along the battered edge of one block, pensive.  "There is so little that one can touch or see, to make it real.  Is it from the Elder Days?  Or the time of Númenor?"

"So you are a mistress of lore as well as herbs?"  Veylin had never given thought before to the rootlessness of Men, always moving west or east, north or south, driven by the Shadow or the sea or their hunger for land to till.

"That is too grand a claim," Saelon objected, with a unpretending smile.  "I know such stories as my people have preserved, but so much was lost when Arnor fell, and more forgotten since."

"That is true of others besides Men."  Yet at least he knew his ground, and still held part of his inheritance.  Stroking the still-smooth face of one tumbled block, he told her, "This looks to be the work of my longfathers from Gabilgathol."

"I have never heard that name."

"It would be a wonder if you had," Veylin admitted, with a touch of the old bitterness.  "Belegost, the Elves called it.  It was one of the great dwarf-cities of the First Age, lost when Beleriand was broken and drowned."

She gazed out towards the water.  "Is that why you mislike the sea?"

He shook his head.  "No."  Rising, he limped to the break in the circle, considering the coursing and bond of the unfallen stones, the broken doorpost and the hollows that would have held bar and bolt.  "This was a watchtower, I guess.  We are near to where Mount Rerir stood, the march of Thargelion and Lothlann."

"It seems you know much lore yourself," Saelon observed.

"How can one not know one's own?  The Father of my fathers woke in these mountains ere the rising of the Sun.  We delved Menegroth for Thingol, and when the Noldor crossed the sea, they sought arms from us for the war against the Enemy.  When Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar, which the Elves called Nogrod, were broken, many went east, to Khazad-dûm, the city of the Longbeards, and to other places.  Yet some of our fathers loved their homes too well to leave.  And now," he sighed, gazing on the ruin of this masterful work, "Khazad-dûm, too, is lost, and Erebor, and the chief of the Longbeards has taken refuge with us in the south."

She looked thoughtful, rather than bemused.  "I did not know you had such strong ties to these lands.  So this was a dwarf-tower?"

"Dwarf-built, for the Noldor," he clarified.  "Our towers are the peaks of the mountains."

Saelon's smile was neither indulgent nor pandering, which was so often the case when others were forbearing enough to listen to Dwarves speak of their ancient works.  "Your forefathers must have had great skill, for even this much to have survived the wreck of two Ages of the world."

"They did."  Yet as she had said, so much had been lost: mansions and treasure; folk and skill.  The mountains were all but tapped out, save for iron and coal, or he would not be facing the sea.

"Some still lingers," she noted drolly, challenging his melancholy.  "Enough to compel Lindon's coastwarden to praise.  As I suspected, you did not value yourself meanly."

Veylin snorted.  "The hall is of greater worth to you for the opinion of some passing Elf?"

She sobered.  "I could not value it more than I did during that four-days' blow in Nínui," she assured him, with the respect for utility that he expected from her.  "Yet I know I do not appreciate the artistry as it deserves."

That took him unawares, warming his heart.  To look at her, you would think she did not know what beauty was; she did, though she prized it differently than he.  "That is Nordri's doing, not mine," he demurred.  "I will be sure to tell him, however, that his work has been praised by Elves and Men."

"Do," she urged with a smile . . . but now there was some uneasiness behind it.  As Veylin gazed up at her, puzzled, she asked hesitantly, "Will you tell me how things stand between your folk and the Elves?"

There were other things besides the finer points of stonework that she was ignorant of; yet she had the wisdom to recognize that, too.  "Have we troubled you with our growling at each other?" he chaffed, but kindly.  "We are not friends, but neither are we foes.  Much of my trade is with Lindon.  This Falathar, who spoke ill of us," Veylin muttered, "I do not know.  But there are some of Doriath still among them, or their kin, and they rarely trouble to distinguish the children of Tumunzahar from other Dwarves."

"Did they bear the guilt for the slaying of Thingol and the sack of Doriath?"

"Aye.  Do your tales not remember it?"  He sighed.  "They came to Gabilgathol for counsel and aid, and my longfathers told them they were mad, that they had been caught up in the curse of that perilous jewel.  But their hearts were hot for vengeance, and you know what we are like in that fell mood."

"Indeed."  Saelon rubbed her naked jaw, which had once borne bruises from Rekk's wrathful grip.  "I would not have my harried folk caught between Elves and Dwarves, not for ancient grievances or disputed lands.  I allied with you against _raugs_ , Veylin, not Elves."

"Lady," he said in all seriousness, honoring her candor with his own, "as they are, I would as soon trust those sandhills against the sea's fury as I would put your folk between me and my enemies.  Do not fear—whatever quarrels I have with Elves, I can fight unaided.  I have not forgotten the fiends," he assured her, clenching his hands on his stick, "but we must be patient: you have too few menfolk to spare for rash forays, and those ill-fed."  Reluctantly, he allowed, "It would be wise to see what your Chieftain sends, before we spend our slight strength against this evil."

She let out her breath as if she had been holding it.  "I am glad to hear you say so.  It is true, they are not strong.  It was a hungry winter, and I am grateful merely to have lost none.  I know how to keep them," she declared, "but I know little of battle and war."

"Do not expect what you have heard in tales," Veylin warned.  "This is like to be closer to a warg-hunt than a battle.  We must run these fiends to ground before we can slay them."

"How do we do that without remaining overnight in their hunting grounds?" Saelon asked.

"If there was a good answer to that," he observed, "the Elves might not be so troubled about how long your folk will remain here."

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Notes

**The Debateable Land** : a small, bitterly contested section of the 16th-century Borders between England and Scotland, just north of Carlisle; English and Scots were both allowed to pasture stock there by day, but were not allowed to leave them there overnight or build permanent dwellings on the land.  Doing so was legitimate grounds for the other side to raid and destroy.

**"The Ruin"** : a fragmentary Old English poem about the decay of Roman Bath (Aquae Sulis, "the waters of Sul").  While I found half a dozen translations, I wasn't satisfied with any of them; this translation was radically reworked from Cook and Tinker (1930) with the help of a recent glossary (Mitchell and Robinson, _A Guide to Old English_ , 1986).

**Cuckoo-flower** (also ladies' smock, _Cardamine pratense_ ): a medicinal plant.

**Osier** ( _Salix_ sp.): a type of willow, especially those used for wickerwork.

**Canny** : in Scots, a double-edged word—prudent and shrewd, especially thrifty; and also natural, free from supernatural powers (usually used in its negative sense, uncanny).

**Tableland** : a small plateau.  This one is based on [Healabhal Mhor](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/geophotos/01/42/24/1422409_83485a98.jpg), also known as Macleod's Table North, on Skye.

**Rill** : a small stream, rivulet.

**Cowslip** ( _Primula veris_ ): since the common name is said to derive from Old English _c?slyppe_ , "cow dung," the Dwarves' suspicions might be forgiven.

**Peat hags** : [moorland with a thick layer of peat](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/photos/17/05/170501_445c7655.jpg).

**Lobelias** ( _Lobelia_ sp.): some species are dangerously potent medicinal plants, with high levels of bitter alkaloids; _Lobelia inflata_ ("Indian tobacco," not to be confused with true tobacco, _Nicotiana rustica_ ) was used to help people stop smoking, since it eased nicotine cravings.  While _L. inflata_ and most of the other medicinal lobelias are native to the Americas, the name of a certain Sackville-Baggins (too much of whom would also probably be unwise) suggests that, like _Nicotiana_ , these plants may have found their way to Eriador.

**Coursing and bond** : in masonry, a course is a row of blocks or bricks; the bond is the pattern they are laid in.

**Father of my fathers** : Veylin and Thyrnir are Firebeards; the Fathers of the Firebeards and the Broadbeams awoke in the Ered Lindon, whose remnants are the Ered Luin (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , pp. 301, 322).  There is not enough evidence to determine whether each kindred had their own city, although I surmise they would have intermingled to some extent, as both surely did with the Longbeards when they took refuge in Khazad-dûm at the end of the First Age.


	4. Little More than Kin

One would be in less danger  
From the wiles of the stranger  
If one's own kin and kith  
Were more fun to be with.

\--Ogden Nash, "Family Court"

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A fair green place, with children chasing through the heather and women sitting in the sun, gossiping over their work . . . but where were the men, and why had he been allowed to come so near without challenge?  Sitting his horse by the ring of fallen stones, where he would show clear against the sky, Dírmaen frowned.  No watch, and the people unwary.

Careless.  Yet the emptiness of the land would breed such errors.  Three days they had ridden north along the coast, since crossing the mountains at the headwaters of the Little Lune and passing through Thôntaen, and seen naught but bird and beast and the subtle sign of Elvish camps.  So pleasant was the land that he could understand why Lindon was jealous of its borders.

Yet even here, evil had come.  They ought not to be so unguarded.

From his perch above, it seemed a child saw him first, pointing and running for the track that led to a high shelf under the cliff.  The curve of the cliff cut off his view of what lay there, but shortly after a pair of horsemen, spears in their hands, plunged down the winding path and galloped towards the break between the cliffs.  Going to alert others, or taking the shortest way to bring horses to this height?

When they reappeared, cantering towards him along the clifftop, Dírmaen glanced back down at the slope and broad lea below.  Little knots of women and youths and some children, huddled like alarmed sheep, staring up; no one with so much as a bow.  Not that a shot would reach so far, but at least it would have shown some spirit, some readiness.

As the horsemen came up the slope from the clifftop, Dírmaen raised his hand palm outward in token of peace.  The lead rider, a short, bearded man with a nose that had been broken and an easy grip on his spear, pulled up a prudent distance away.  The other was a red-haired youth, his face set in earnest gravity.

"Hail, stranger," the man greeted him coolly.  "Who are you, and what brings you to us?"

"Dírmaen is my name.  I seek the folk of Srathen Brethil.  Who are you to ask?"

"You have found us, such as are left," the man replied, with a grim smile.  "I am called Partalan, and I serve our lady."  Bringing his mount nearer, he studied him closely.  "Why do you seek us?"

The man looked more like a Dunlending sell-sword past mark of mouth than a man of the North, and though the cloak-star was plain to be seen, apparently it told him nothing.  Dírmaen debated how much he should say.  Srathen Brethil had been an outmarch, with few Dúnedain; neither of these were of the West.  "Your lady asked that word be sent to her kin of your plight."

Partalan curled his lip.  "And this is what the Chieftain sends us?  One man?"

"No," Dírmaen answered, with a blander contempt.  "We have seen no watch, and did not want to ride in amongst you unannounced."

"We have better things to do than stand watch, with men so few and the country so quiet," Partalan answered brusquely.  "How many are you?"

"Six."

From the divided look on the man's face, that was still too few for his pride, but also too many armed strangers for comfort.  "Gaernath," he told the youth, "find the Lady and tell her of our guests."

"Aye."  Yet before the redhead turned his mount, he eagerly asked Dírmaen, "Are you Rangers?"

At least this one had heard of them, and saw them as cause for hope.  "Yes."

With a whoop, the youth kicked his horse and galloped back the way he had come.  Partalan's jaded face did not change a whit.  "How far are the others?"

"Near enough.  May I signal them?"  When the man nodded curtly, Dírmaen pulled his spear from the turf and, raising it over his head, waved it slowly from side to side.  He did not bother to look along the craggy ridge to where the others would be dropping down to the hollow where they had left their horses, but watched Partalan instead, as the man scanned the land, seeking some sign of them.

It did not take him long to spot them.  Harsh he might be, and apparently resentful, but he was no stranger to arms, and he considered them narrowly as they came, judging in his turn.

"Greetings," Râdbaran said courteously, as he pulled his dun up beside Dírmaen's bay.

"Welcome to Habad-e-Mindon, lord," Partalan replied, bowing his head stiffly.  "Come down to our hall, so the Lady can greet you properly."

"Lead on," Râdbaran invited, gesturing towards the downward path.

Halgorn fell in beside Dírmaen as they trotted sedately along the top of the cliff and cocked a concerned eyebrow.  "Why do they send a sell-sword to greet us?" he murmured, hardly loud enough to hear.

"He does have that look, doesn't he?" Dírmaen replied, as low.  Gazing towards the lea below, he sighed bleakly.  "I saw few men of any kind as I waited.  They are mostly women and children."

"How else would they have a Lady?"  After a discontented pause, he grumbled, "I suppose we must get them packed up, then shepherd them to wherever they may have kin."  He had wished for at least a glimpse of whatever had harried these folk from their valley; even more, for a chance to slay one.  The uncertainty about the evil—was it beasts twisted into unnatural malevolence, or trolls, or some new thing of the Enemy?—nagged at Halgorn, who took a fierce delight in destroying such creatures.

"Perhaps not.  There are fields of corn between the cliffs and the sea."  Dírmaen wondered why they had troubled to till and sow.  Had they thought that the Chieftain would abandon them?  That might explain Partalan's bitter distain.

Halgorn rolled his eyes with a resigned smile.  "Farmers.  How are we to budge them before harvest?"

The cliff track swung inland as they reached the gap, running some five hundred _rangar_ down to where the cliff failed, then turning back on itself alongside a broad stream fringed with lush watermeadows.  Here, in the shelter of the notch, small trees grew in tangled thickets.  From one patch of leaf-shadow, eyes peered: a clutch of young boys, staring and whispering amongst themselves.

He hoped some of them were Dúnedain.

As they came level with the tumbled slopes below the cliffs and even the willows failed, he looked up to the shelf for some sign of their dwellings.  Those would give a clue to their numbers, and to how long they thought to stay.  Though if men were few, and with timber far to seek . . . .  None.  There were no buildings, not so much as a booth or a shed.  Frowning, Dírmaen turned in the saddle to scan the whole curve of the land around the bay.  They were passing the fields of barley; there were horses grazing on the far side of the lea and sheep on the surrounding slopes; and there was the clutter of a dooryard at the foot of the southern cliff, with linen drying on thornbushes and folk gazing down at them.  Where did they house?

It was only once you neared the top of the track that you saw the caves beneath the cliff.  As they dismounted, Partalan spoke sharply to a couple of older boys—bondsmen, by the look of them—who came forward to take their horses.  Râdbaran had Hanend go with them, then walked over to where a tall Dúnadaneth, over-pale, her beauty ravaged by grief and travail, waited beneath the overhanging stone.

"Lady," he greeted her, bowing, clearly moved by her distress.  "I am Râdbaran, Ranger of the North.  Tell me how I can aid you."

Her thin face lit a little at his courtesy, but there was a twist to her answering smile.  "Alas," she replied gently, "I fear you have mistaken me.  Urwen I am, widow of Haldorn, and not the Lady Saelon."

"I see more than one lady here among you," Râdbaran insisted, in his gallant way, and smiled on the young woman and a pair of nearly-grown girls in fine linen at her side.  The young woman's smile was thankful on her elder's account, but the girls looked askance and tittered.  "You are all our kinswomen, are you not?"

Now Urwen's smile was unreserved, grateful for the grace of his recovery.  "Take care, Râdbaran," she warned lightly.  "We are desperately short of men, and my daughter or cousins may set their hearts upon you."

"I am already spoken for, I fear.  Who are your kin, Urwen?" he asked.  "From your speech, you have dwelt near Evendim."

"My father was Halglas, from Calen Amon."

"Then we are cousins," Halgorn broke in, grinning.  "I am Halgorn, of Gelltunn, Dírnuir's son."

Urwen held out a hand and he stepped forward to take it.  "It is good to see a kinsman," she said, voice trembling as if between tears and joy.  "We are at the end of the world, here."

"Literally," Meagvir agreed dryly.

There was the thudding of hooves on the track behind them, and they turned to see a chestnut mare rounding the turn halfway up, bearing two riders.  Dírmaen recognized the horse, and the red-haired youth who now sat pillion behind a dark-haired woman, awkwardly clutching a basket as well as his spear with his free arm.

"Ah," Urwen said, abruptly composed, stiff.  "Here is the Lady Saelon."

Once they had dismounted, the woman handed the reins to the youth and shook her kilted skirt of stained woollen down over bare feet.  "See that Eapag gets the limpets," she told him.  Dírmaen was just thinking what a drab she was, despite the gleam of gold in her straggling hair, when she faced them and he was struck by the keenness of her eyes.  "Welcome to Habad-e-Mindon," she greeted them forthrightly, dropping a courteous curtsey.  "I am Saelon, lady of what is left of the folk of Srathen Brethil."

"Lady."  Râdbaran bowed, taken aback and retreating into formality.  "Râdbaran is my name, and Arathorn has sent me to aid you as I can."

She was short for a women of their kin, and looked up at him with a grave smile.  "I hope you had a safe journey.  These are your men?"

"Let me introduce them: Meagvir, my second; Dolladan; Halgorn; Dírmaen; and Hanend is helping your folk see to our horses."

Those eyes, grey as the sea, went to each of them as they were named to her.  "We are honored that the Chieftain sent so many.  Please, come into the hall and take some refreshment," she invited graciously, gesturing towards the smallest cave.  "Rian, in the kist with Oddi's cup you will find a skin of mead; please fetch it and cups for our guests.  And I believe we—" she gave her soiled hands a rueful glance "—could use some water for washing.  Will you see to having my cave cleared out, Partalan, and heather cut for beds?  Bereth, I believe Maelchon has a barren cow he was saving for _loëndë_ ; ask Fransag if we might have it a little early."

Urwen, the heroically suffering Dúnedain matron, had immediately excited their pity, but Dírmaen wondered what, if anything, this commanding woman might want from them.  Râdbaran had recovered from his initial surprise, and was regarding her with thoughtful curiosity.  "After you, Lady.  Where exactly is your hall?"

She met his gaze, equally thoughtful.  "Did news of us reach the Chieftain from those fleeing Srathen Brethil, or from the Havens?"

"Both."

"Hhm.  This way, Rangers."

When Dírmaen saw the massive door of oak set in the back of the grot, welcomingly open but strongly strapped with iron, he knew they were not simply going to shepherd these people back east.  And when he saw what lay beyond, he finally understood why one so high as Râdbaran had been sent to gather in fear-bolted strays.

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As the long mild twilight of Nórui settled kindly on the land, their menfolk came home.  A sturdy husbandman of the stock of the North, with his former neighbor's son and their servants, came in first, their draft horses blowing under the drag of good oak; later, a hunting party of younger men, including the boy heir, riding hell-for-leather at the sight of so many strange horses grazing on the lea.

After the scrappy but joyous feast thrown together for their welcome, Râdbaran invited Halpan to join them in the cave where they had been housed, promising him a draught of what had been sorely lacking.  There was no need to ask twice.  The young man, younger even than Hanend, had been relieved as well as pleased to see them, having borne the burden of being the chief man among them for many months.  Dírmaen thought him a pleasant fellow, with the promise of greater consequence to come.

"Your people are in surprisingly good heart," Râdbaran complimented him when they were all gathered in the rough cavern, passing a cup.  "Especially given the lack of this."

"Oh, we feel the lack," Halpan assured him, and lost no time in drinking.  When he lowered the half-drained cup, he sighed with heart-felt appreciation.  "Thank you, kinsman.  How I've missed a long draught of ale.  It is almost as good as Saelon's."

"Indeed?"  Râdbaran handed the skin off to Dolladan and sat down on one of the benches with his own cup.  "She seems a remarkable woman, your lady."

Halpan grinned.  "I know few who have not found some cause for remark, on her appearance if not her behavior.  She has always gone her own way—and a blessing that has turned out to be," he added, sobering.

"Your sister told me," Meagvir commented, "that she has long lived here, alone."

"Alone?" Halgorn exclaimed, frowning, as he handed Dírmaen the ale.

"Yes, here in this cave," Halpan answered, trying to pass it off as nothing very extraordinary.  "If she had not known the land so well, there would be fewer of us.  It was a hard winter, with so many mouths and so little corn."

Dírmaen's companions at the board, the huntsman Aniel and his brother Teig, had had little but praise for their lady, and their complaints were of her insistence that they eat strange weeds and things like snails from the sea, not of her unwomanly independence or the odd company she kept.

"How many did you lose?" Meagvir asked, his tone condoling.

"None," the young man declared proudly.  "In fact, there are three more now than there were at the turning of the year, and another due shortly."  That was good cause for pride, even if he was hardly more than the Lady's strong right hand, and he basked in the surprise and murmurs of approval from the older Dúnedain.

Halgorn was still frowning, baffled, but it was Hanend who voiced his disbelief.  "How could she survive, alone, so far from Srathen Brethil?  Surely she must have had a man to hunt and keep her."

Halpan glared at him, taken aback, then affronted.  "Am I to sit here and listen to you slander my cousin, and you her guest?" he demanded, coldly furious.

Râdbaran silenced Hanend's protest with a cutting glance.  "Please forgive our young kinsman," he pled.  "I am sure he did not mean to question the Lady Saelon's honor.  He is too fond of romances, and probably imagines father-crossed lovers plighting their troth in the Wild.  Dírmaen, if you are not going to finish the ale, give the rest to Halpan as a peace offering."

Dírmaen went over and topped up Halpan's cup, emptying the skin.  He did not understand how a woman—how anyone—could long live alone, far from aid and the company of others.  Accident, sickness, the indifference that crept over one's heart when it little mattered what one did . . . or whether one did anything at all, save find enough food to keep hunger at bay.  How could one avoid such things?  Yet that might explain the carelessness of Saelon's appearance and the brusqueness of her manner.  What were the niceties when there was no one to be nice for?

Halpan gave him a curt nod of thanks.  "If no dishonor was meant, pardon my angry words," he said, dutifully forgiving; yet his mouth was still dissatisfied.  "If you were only repeating what others have hinted, let me advise you to judge Saelon for yourself.  I know," he allowed sourly, "that many of the women say such things, even my own sister."  Dírmaen suspected there would be words between the siblings over this.  "And, no offense to your cousin, Halgorn, there is an old quarrel between Saelon and Urwen, that they will not speak of.  Grief and dependence have crabbed Urwen's temper.  They are both great-hearted ladies, in their different ways, and justly proud, but we are on Saelon's ground here."

"I cannot imagine," Râdbaran replied sympathetically, "that two ladies would share a hall more peaceably than two lords one domain, whether they were kin or no.  My own lady is as masterful as Saelon in her bounds.  Even I must bow to her will in many things."

"As I have found it wise to do with Saelon," Halpan declared.  "Halladan did not lightly send his children, or his people, into her keeping."

Râdbaran weighed this.  "He sent, upon consideration?  This was not simply the easiest way to flee?"

"It was not easy to cross the mountains, Râdbaran.  Not in Girithron."

"I suppose not."

Dírmaen did not know what the Ered Luin were like in winter.  The passes were lower than those of the Hithaeglir, which he had crossed, but they must be near as far north as Carn Dûm here.  Short and drear would be the days of Girithron; long and icy the nights, cruel if haunted by evil.  It should have been easier to retreat across the Lune, and that was what at least a score of families had done.  But none of the Dúnedain, and none of those who held to their oaths to them.  He drank and pondered that.

"And for all that she chafes here now," Halpan pointed out, "Urwen was the first to take refuge here, in Narbeleth."

"Why here," Halgorn asked, "and not with us in the Emyn Uial?"

Halpan's silence stretched on until it fired curiosity; yet Rangers were practiced in patience.  "She will not say," he finally told them, when no one would relieve him of whatever his burden was.  "We suspect she may have had some foresight of what befell."

That was cause for silence.  Such warnings were a grave matter, and to be respected.

Meagvir was the first to speak.  "What brought Saelon to this place?"

"That is no secret: she loves the sea."  Nevertheless, his hands turned his cup round and round, worrying at it.  There was more than he was willing to say here, too.  One Dúnadaneth drawn hither, one driven, and no great love between them.  Strange.

Râdbaran regarded Halpan solemnly.  "She would be loathe to leave it, then?"

"Very."  There was no doubt in the young man's voice.

Setting aside his cup, Râdbaran folded his hands and rested his chin against them.  "We are in Lindon, and the Elves do not look favorably on your settlement here."

"So they have told us," Halpan muttered.

"Are the rest of you wedded to this place?"

He did not have to consider long.  "No.  Some would be eager to leave, if there was a safe way out . . . although others will cleave to Saelon."

"Would she even consider going?" Râdbaran asked.

Halpan drank while he thought.  "Perhaps, but only out of duty to us."

"Where would your folk go, if they could?"

"Home," Halpan said.  "To Srathen Brethil."

"Save for these fell-beasts, or _raugs_ , or whatever they are," Halgorn pointed out.

"Save for them, yes," Halpan replied shortly.  "Saelon has made a pact for vengeance with Veylin, but these things are so deadly that we dare not stay abroad after dark.  We cannot even scout across the mountains.  A single man would be a dire loss, as we are."

"We can help you there," Râdbaran told him.  "Tell me about this Veylin.  The Dwarves have suffered from these _raugs_ as well?"

Halpan nodded.  "How much, I do not know, but at least two slain and Veylin lame for life."

"Dwarves take vengeance very seriously," Dolladan observed.  He had more experience of Dwarves than the rest of them, from his time near the High Pass.  "Yet their lives being longer, they sometimes have more patience in such matters than Men, preferring to be sure of their stroke."

"Veylin has been counseling Saelon to wait until we are stronger, or at least better fed," Halpan confirmed, with a wry smile.  "I admit his arguments are sound, but they carry less weight with Mais and Aniel."

Dírmaen was glad someone was keeping these courageous but ill-prepared young men on a tight rein.  Hunting fell creatures was a grim task, and the attempt had already slain their elders.

"If these _raugs_ are ranging so widely in the mountains, how are the Dwarves coming to you?" Dolladan asked.

The young man shrugged dismissively.  "Veylin and his people dwell only a few hours from here."

"West of the mountains?" Râdbaran exclaimed.

"Yes," Halpan replied, puzzled by his astonishment.

"Do the Elves know this?"

"I do not know."

Râdbaran rubbed his jaw.  "Will you tell us where their mansion is?  It would be useful to speak with them about the _raugs_."

"I would if I could," Halpan assured him, "but I am ignorant of that as well.  They come to us."

Dolladan snorted.  "That's Dwarves for you."  He looked to Râdbaran.  "A hall like this is not delved for a season's shelter.  The Dwarves must desire these folk for neighbors."

"Why?" Râdbaran wanted to know.  "To weaken Lindon's claim?"

"Who can tell?  At the least, it would save them carrying grain from the Shire or Bree; there is little to be had nearer."

"What do you think?" Râdbaran asked Meagvir.

"I think we should get these folk back to Srathen Brethil or across the Lune, as soon as may be.  Between Elves and Dwarves is not a good place to be."

"But the _raugs_ —" Halpan protested.

"Perhaps we can deal with them with greater dispatch than the Dwarves," Râdbaran asserted.  "Halgorn has some experience with fell creatures.  Have any of your men fought these things?"

"All who fight them are slain," Halpan said bleakly.  "Save perhaps Veylin.  The only ones who have seen more than menacing shapes and the bodies of the slain are Tarain and Aniel."

"Speak with them tomorrow," Râdbaran told Halgorn, "and see what you can learn.  They are abroad during the darkness, you say."  He gestured out of the cave's mouth at the lingering gloaming.  "I see your nights are very short, so far north.  Perhaps at _loëndë_ there will be so little darkness that something may be accomplished."

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Notes

**Past mark of mouth** : the age of horses was and is commonly judged by seeing how much their teeth have worn down.  This is quite accurate until about 8 years of age; after that most of the best markers have worn away.  A horse past mark of mouth was therefore comparatively old (especially in the days before modern veterinary care, when they were often worked very hard); you would not be getting too many more years of work out of them.

**_Rangar_** : the plural of _ranga_ , a Númenorean "yard," approximately 38 English inches.

**Bondsmen** : someone dependent on a bond or contract with their lord for their support; i.e., one without land in their own right.  This is approximately equivalent to the term the folk of Srathen Brethil use, cottar, but places greater emphasis on the dependence, being bound.  The shadings of meaning found among the wide variety of labels used for lower class people in the early (and later) medieval period are as significant as they can be subtle, with different flavors in different cultures.

**Pillion** : the position of a second rider, sitting behind the saddle; before sidesaddles, women often rode pillion.

**Limpet** ( _Patella_ sp.): [gastropod with a cone-shaped shell](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f4/Common_limpets1.jpg) that clings tightly to rocks in the intertidal zone; while some people assert that they are only good for fishbait, in Argyll they were commonly made into a broth, which was supposed to be particularly good for nursing mothers.

**Arathorn** : this is Arathorn I (2693–†2848), the great-great-grandfather of Aragorn Telcontar, the King Elessar.

**_Loëndë_** : Mid-Year Day.

**Grot** : grotto, cave.

**Hithaeglir** : the Misty Mountains.

**Carn Dûm** : the chief fortress of the Witch-King's realm of Angmar, at the northwestern end of the Hithaeglir.

**"Short and drear the days of Girithron"** : if the Shire is at about the same latitude as the English West Midlands, Habad-e-Mindon and Srathen Brethil are at about the same latitude as Argyll (56° N).  Consequently, the length of the day varies dramatically with the seasons.  There would be around seven hours of daylight at the winter solstice (Yule/ _mettarë_ and _yestarë_ ) and seventeen and a half hours of daylight at the summer solstice (Midsummer/ _loëndë_ ).

**The High Pass** : Cirith Forn en Andrath, "The High-climbing Pass of the North," over the Misty Mountains east of Rivendell; this leads to the Old Forest Road or Men-i-Naugrim, "The Dwarf-road."  This is the way Thorin and Company took—or tried to take—to the Lonely Mountain, and would appear to be the main route for traffic between Eriador and the Vale of Anduin after the Bridge at Tharbad was broken.


	5. In the Shadow of the Birches

_Glencoe has no melancholy except that which men bring to it, remembering its history._

\--John Prebble, _Glencoe: The Story of the Massacre_

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East and a little south they rode in the first clear light, two days before _loëndë_ , following the broad stream across the moor and up into the hills beyond.  Tarain, who had traveled between Srathen Brethil and the coast several times with Halladan, was their principal guide, and Aniel accompanied them as well, for his huntsman's knowledge of the _raugs_ and their spoor.  Meagvir had been less willing to include Halpan in the party: though only a little younger than the other two, as yet he had no experience of the _raugs_ or any affray grimmer than a stag hunt; but it was hard to deny his right as the ranking Dúnadan of that valley, especially when he insisted on going.  In truth, they would not have taken any but Rangers, save for the value of a knowledge of the country.

For this was a trackless land, and once in the hills, it would have been easy to become mazed among the craggy ridges and small, moss-bottomed glens.  Even the three Srathen Brethil men together were sometimes unsure of the way, and in the middle of the morning they had to double back nearly half a league when Tarain led them into a blind, cliff-sided corrie.  An unpromising start.  Whatever the weather had been in Girithron, Dírmaen marveled that no one had been lost during the flight to the coast.  Under the shining Midsummer sun, the hills wore a fair face, flowers nodding in the breeze on every hand; but at heart this was a thrawn and pitiless place, stony as the Dwarves who dwelt beneath, somewhere.

Meagvir called a halt a few hours short of midday, after they had led their horses across a swift-running, knee-deep stream with a bottom of treacherously sliding stones.  On the far side was an inviting patch of turf, sheltered from the wind by a thicket of hawthorn, and there, once they had hobbled the horses and freed their mouths to graze, they sprawled at ease, drying their feet in the warmth of the sun and eating their slender rations.

"I guess that we have covered near six leagues," Meagvir said discontentedly, "but I am sure it would come to no more than four, as a bird flies.  At this rate, will we reach Srathen Brethil by _loëndë_ , Tarain?"

"We should," the swordsman answered, grinning ruefully.  "These are not the lands we know, and the quickest ways are crooked, here in the mountains.  But we will reach our shielings when we have gone about as far again.  Then, in our own country, we will be better guides."

"How long until we come to Srathen Brethil, would you guess?"

"Tomorrow evening easily, if no ill befalls."

Meagvir rubbed his chin.  "I do not wish to arrive late in the day, since night is when the danger will be greatest.  Is there a good place to camp, two or three hours away, where it would be hard to creep up on us?"

"I know of two," Aniel offered.

"Then let us aim to reach one by the end of tomorrow.  If we have the time," Meagvir continued, "I suggest that we halt for some hours now, while the sun is high.  It will rest the horses, and we will need less sleep during the darkness.  Would you and your men," he asked Halpan, "watch now, while we sleep?  We will return the favor tonight."

If Halpan had pressed his company upon them, at least he had the sense not to strive to match the Rangers.  "Certainly.  It is kind of you to give us the dark for sleeping."  Looking around, he considered the ground.  "Aniel, will you take the height?  And you by that boulder on the far slope, Tarain?  I will go down the burn a way, and between us, nothing should come near without warning."

Halgorn moved into the shade of the hawthorns and found a smooth hollow to lay in; Dírmaen retrieved his boots from the rock they leaned against to let the water drain and tugged them back on, unwilling to be caught bare-footed if something went amiss.  Meagvir finished his strip of dried salmon, Habad-e-Mindon's contribution to their supplies, watching the three men head out to take up their positions.  By the time Dírmaen found a spot without too many stones, Tarain had reached his rock and was putting his boots back on, having taken them off to wade across the rivulet; Halpan had settled on a dark stone that jutted out into the swirling water and was checking that he could see the other two from his chosen seat.

"If he nods off there," Dírmaen observed, "he'll be in the drink."

"That's why he chose it, don't you think?" Meagvir said, with a knowing smile.  "Lest the Rangers catch him napping?"

Dírmaen chuckled.  "Likely enough."  Glancing around, he said, "The others are well-placed."

"He has some skill," Meagvir acknowledged.  "And he is clever; yet I could wish his mettle more sternly tested."  Laying back and staring up at the sky, he sighed.  "I wonder whether any of his elders had served with the Rangers."

For if they had, that would be some measure of their foe, truer than the tales told by frightened farmfolk and bucolic men-at-arms, who thought wolves and reivers great banes.

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They made no better time in the afternoon, but by pushing on past sunset they reached one of the more distant shielings before the dusk grew too deep for safe riding.  There was nothing there but a low cobble wall, the footing for a booth, and Tarain showed them a store of peats left under a slab of stone.  Dírmaen still had trouble seeing the dense, earthy moss as fuel, and these, left from last season, were crumbling away, but it was reassuring that they could have fire at need.

Once the horses were picketed near to hand and they had gnawed another scant meal of waybread and dried fish, the men of Srathen Brethil rolled up in their cloaks within the wall, which broke the wind that had arisen, chill even at Midsummer this high in the mountains.  The Rangers donned their grey cloaks and settled down to the watch: a quiet one, the only strangeness the way the sun's afterglow clung to the northern horizon, dimming the stars.

Dírmaen wondered how much light these _raugs_ could tolerate.  Were they like trolls, that must shelter between dawn and dusk; or the greater Orcs, who shunned the sun's brightness but could bear it at need?  If they were pent by the sun's rise and set, they could hardly range more than a few leagues from their lair at this season; yet if they ranged for meat, they must have hunted the nearer lands out by now.  Although, if they took refuge in water, there were pools and tarns enough in these boggy hills to offer shelter, should they roam further afield after their prey.

Though they took to checking the verges of such water as fell in their way, they saw no sign of unusual predator or prey until, after their midday sleep, they came across the scant remains of a long-dead cow.  While the smaller bones were gone, gnawed away or carried off by natural beasts, not even a wolf could have broken the massive thigh bone in such a cleanly curving spiral.  Halgorn got down from his horse and carefully examined what was left.  He frowned over it with dissatisfaction.  "This tells me almost nothing.  We should fan out, where we can," he said, "and look for fresher sign."

Yet though Dírmaen's skin prickled at the emptiness of the land—plenty of birds and small creatures, but neither tracks nor droppings of anything larger than a fox—nothing more did they find before they reached the first of Aniel's campsites, a flattish mound in the hollow between three hills, somewhat sheltered from the wind and with good water to hand.  Meagvir considered it, and consulted with Halgorn, before standing a while in thought, gazing at the western sky, where the sun hung low in the notch between two of the hills.  "How far to the other place, Aniel?" he asked.

"Half a league: there is better shelter there, thickets of hazel around a spring."

"That settles it," Meagvir declared.  "We camp here.  I want a clear view around us tonight."

A wise decision, though a bone-chilling one.  Perhaps an hour after the middle of the night, out of the corner of his eye, Dírmaen saw movement on the hill before him.  In this deep twilight, it was useless to stare at what you wished to see . . . but by looking near, something might be made out.  It was large, dusky as the gloaming, and came around the shoulder of the hill, moving their way.  Not a deer or a cow, nor a bear . . . and not quite like a man.

His low whistle promptly brought Halgorn, who squatted beside him.  "Where?"  Dírmaen pointed, and once he spotted the shape, Halgorn watched intently as the thing began to cross the boggy rivulet below them.  "Troll-like," he breathed, "but not the same.  It does not shamble.  We best mount and move; it might be swift."

"For short distances, yes," Aniel hissed at their shoulders, on point like one of his hounds.  A light sleeper, as befit a huntsman, or one who had been hunted by fell creatures.

Meagvir took them almost two-thirds of a league before halting again, and they spent the little left of the night on the bare head of a high hill, with easy ways down in several directions.  But no one slept, and they were in the saddle as the sun peered up over the horizon.

Chewing their tasteless waybread, they kept a close watch about them.  The high hills and their shadows behind them, they trotted down a deeply worn droveway, a wooded valley coming into view beneath them.  It had a kindly look: even from here you could see the level green of pasture and field, hinting where to look for house and byre.

But there were no threads of smoke rising in the still air, from hearths where breakfast was cooking; no beasts on the pastures; no windrows of hay drying on the lush meadows.

Halpan and Halgorn led abreast as they entered the broad belt of birchwood that gave the place its name.  Dimness lingered under the leaves, though the slim boles shone fair and pale in the shadow.  There had been much traffic here once, but Dírmaen, bringing up the rear, saw that green was invading the beaten earth.  The only tracks were those of birds and small woodland creatures.  Indeed, birds were plentiful in the wood, caroling the morning, seeking food for their new broods.  A brock, waddling back to his burrow for the day, stared at them for a heartbeat before scuttling into the frothy whiteness of blooming woodruff.

The track came out of the wood and into a wide lea at the side of a small, swift river, the rippling shallows of the ford before them.  On the right the water widened out into a pool fringed with yellow-flowering flags, and on the far side stood a cluster of buildings around a goodly hall.

Tarain suddenly spurred his horse past the others, throwing great sheets of spray from the ford, making for the hall.

They followed him.

Dírmaen found the silence unsettling: no children, no dogs, no lowing of kine or bleating of sheep.  Even the harsh croak of carrion crows would have been something.  They might have been in the Wild, and not in the dooryard of a prosperous-looking house, the porch pillars carved with intertwined ivy and rose.  A sparrow nesting in the roof thatch cocked her head at them.

Coming around the end of the hall after Tarain, they saw that its stout corner post had been heaved outward and broken off; the heather of the thatch was torn and scattered, letting sun and weather into the hall.  Halgorn paused to peer cautiously in, then shook his head and moved on.  No other sign, only proof of monstrous strength, capable of snapping a trunk of seasoned oak.

The swordsman pulled up beside a heap of great boulders, his shoulders sagging with what might have been relief.  Halpan joined him, staring at the stones in puzzlement.  "Where did these come from?"

"We brought them from the river, to cover Halladan and the others," Aniel told him somberly, gazing at the stones.

That would have been no small labor.  A great monument to their lord, given the fewness of their men, the shortness of those days, and the mountain journey before them.

"I feared the _raugs_ might have shifted them," Tarain explained, glancing back at the broken hall.  "But all is as it was when we left."

Meagvir looked around, at the hall and byre, storehouses and cotts.  "I do not want to tarry, and we cannot burden ourselves with household gear, but is there anything of value you would seek and carry back?" he asked Halpan, whose stare had shifted to the horrified look of a man vividly imagining what had befallen a well-known place, dearly loved people.

When Halpan did not reply, Tarain shook his head.  "All that was important we carried with us, save grain, and that will still be too great a burden.  The rest can wait, _raug_ -guarded, until we return . . . or we will do without."

"Is this—" Halgorn pointed to the pool "—the mere where the _raugs_ lair?"

"No, that lies in a corrie off the northern end of the glen," Aniel reminded him.  "Almost three leagues from here.  But we should check for their spoor.  They may have shifted their ground."

So they rode along the river, on the watch for some sign of their foes, passing steading after steading, good sturdy farmhouses standing silent: doors shut, yards rank with nettles, gardens wild with rotting kale stalks and weeds, mildewed ricks scattered by wind and beast, the fields untilled.  Each one a family displaced, or a family dead.  Dírmaen had seen broken settlements before, the work of Orcs or outlaws, but never one like this, where houses and byres were unburnt, unplundered.  It was as if the people had died of some plague . . . except even then there would have been some foul whiff of corruption on the breeze, remnants of bodies dragged from houses by wolves, or foxes, or faithless dogs.

They were simply abandoned.  Derelict.  The fear had been so strong, people had fled from all they had.  And they had had much.  From the size of the byres, they had been good herdsmen.  Where were the beasts?  Some had reached Habad-e-Mindon, and many had doubtless gone east; all Dírmaen saw as they went were a few goats, staring warily as they rode by, quick to flee.

And the bones of cattle and sheep, here and there.

When they had covered half the distance Aniel named, a stream joined the river from the east, and the track forked beyond the ford, the left-hand way veering northwest and the right-hand running along the stream towards a low, birch-clad hill.  As the rest of them followed Aniel, who more and more resembled a hound on a strong scent, head down and pressing the pace, Dírmaen saw Halpan turn off along the stream, heading east.  "Where are you going?" he called.

Halpan did not answer, but Tarain pulled up his horse and came back.  "His home lies there," he said gravely, gazing after the young Dúnadan with worried eyes.  "His brother and nephew, now, too."

Meagvir paused, turning his horse, scowling.  "Dírmaen, go with him, but do not linger.  Catch up as soon as you may."

"Come with me," Dírmaen asked Tarain.

Some two furlongs from the ford, in the lee of the birches, was a well-built hall little smaller than Halladan's, undamaged, with the same air of eerie neglect.  On the western edge of the yard, Halpan sat his horse, staring down at two short wooden posts.  As they halted a respectful distance away, Halpan grated, "I was not here with them, as I ought to have been."

"Why not?" Dírmaen asked.

"I stayed at Habad-e-Mindon with Saelon and Gaernath," he replied bitterly.  "Saelon would not return here with us, as her brother wished.  One of the Dwarves had harshly reproached us for leaving her unprotected, yet Gaernath was the only one willing to remain.  He defied his father to do so.  The lad's steadfastness and courage shamed me . . . and it was a fair, fresh land, when this one seemed stale."

Honor had bid him stay by his kinswoman, and now it reproached him for having abandoned his brother.  The demands of honor were ever so, like balancing on a sword's edge.  Yet if he had chosen otherwise, there would probably be a third post here.

"Halladan was glad that you stayed," Tarain assured him.

Halpan sighed bleakly.  "I know."  He looked at Halladan's man.  "And I was glad to serve him so.  Then.  I wish," he muttered, "that I had come back here, to serve in my brother's place, after Urwen came to us."

Dírmaen considered this.  "Why didn't you?"

"Saelon advised me against it.  She said she could not feed them without me.  That Halladan had let them go because he knew I was there."

Two soft-handed women and five children would indeed have been too great a burden, even on so resourceful and indelicate a woman as Saelon, with only that great boy for help.

"She was right," Tarain confirmed.  "Halladan was deeply troubled by Urwen's wild flight, but he took comfort from the thought that you were there."

"She is always right," Halpan declared with harsher bitterness.  "Cold as the waves she takes her counsel from.  I told her," he cried, wracked by guilt and grief, "that I feared for Halladan, but did that move her?"

"You could not have feared for him more than she did," Tarain bit back, fierce in his lady's defense.  "Did any of you care for her, save Halladan?  You admit yourself that you did not stay for her sake, but for your own pride.  You did not see her face—" the swordsman's voice was thick with more than anger "—when I brought her the news of his death.  He sent the helm into her hands because he knew that she would keep us all for love of him, and more wisely than you.  Before you object to her harkening to the waves, you ought to give better counsel yourself."

"If Halladan thought the sea such an ally, why did he not lead you all there himself, instead of staying here to be slain?"

"Because he could no more bear to be near the sea than Saelon can bear to be from it," Tarain declared.  "Did you not know?"

Dírmaen stared from one to the other.  Halpan had told them that Saelon loved the sea, but this sounded like something more.

"I do not understand all this about the sea," Halpan grumbled despairingly.

Tarain looked to Dírmaen for support, and his expression grew uncertain when he saw the Ranger's puzzlement.  "I thought it was a Dúnedain thing."

"Not so far as I know," Dírmaen said.  "But this is no place for such a discussion, and no time for quarrels.  Come—we must catch up with the others."

The sea: here in the North they had turned their backs on it, leaving it to the Elves, who could still find refuge beyond it.  Naught but wrath lay that way for Men, or so the Downfall had taught them.  For all his Númenorean blood, Dírmaen had felt nothing more than curiosity when he looked upon the waves.  Could their call be so strong that a sensible woman would leave her kin to dwell beside them, alone?  Could they be so daunting that a courageous man would face doom rather than flee thither?

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 A raven was perched in the aspen that stood near the tarn, the tree's leaves trembling in the breeze as if it, too, feared this place.

"Ai!" Halpan cried, throwing up an arm to startle it to flight.  "Get you gone, bird of ill-omen!"  But the raven only hopped a little further along the branch, peering down at them.

"There are many tracks here," Dírmaen observed, staring down at the heather; but the scrub did not hold prints.  He glanced towards the water.  "That looks more promising, but we must leave the horses here."

"I will hold them," Tarain offered.  "I am no tracker."

Stepping carefully on stone and heather, the rest of them approached the tarn.  In its mucky verge there were many tracks—large and small, old and fresh—unlike anything Dírmaen had ever seen.  They were near the shape of a booted foot, but only if the boots were very bad and the tracks had been blurred by age.  Yet many were clearly fresh, their edges only beginning to dry in the sunshine.

"What are these things?" Halgorn muttered.

Halpan traced one of the small tracks with a finger and a look of fearful fascination.  "Even the Dwarves don't know, and Saelon says they have dwelt here since the Elder Days."

"So stories tell," Meagvir agreed.

Aniel wore a look of contained hate.  "There are more of the smaller prints than there were.  Are these things spawning?"

Dírmaen could make out at least three sets of large tracks: one bigger than the slot of the largest troll he had ever seen, the others a finger's-length shorter.  The smaller ones, man-sized or a little less, were more confused, circling and crossing over each other, often dug deep as if the things had leapt; but they had churned the peaty muck to such a mire that no clear pattern could be seen.  "I make out at least five, perhaps as many as six."

The raven, which had swooped down to a nearby rock, hopped off and strolled towards him, watching warily with its beady black eyes.  It paused on the lip of one of the largest prints, angling its head as if it, too, was trying to fathom it.  Was the bird tame, an abandoned pet?

"There could not have been more than four in Girithron," Aniel asserted.

Behind them, Tarain cried in warning, "Ho!  Someone on the hill above!"

Startled, the five of them looked up as one from the mud.  Dírmaen glanced back to see where the swordsman was looking—towards a tumble of boulders to the left—when an answering bellow rolled down from that part of the corrie.  "Tarain?  Aniel?"  A short figure leapt up onto a boulder and waved an axe over its head.

"Aye!" Aniel shouted back, fiercely glad.  "Come down, Master!"

Not one but four Dwarves came down the slope to join them, and they were armed for battle: helms and mail, axes and short-shafted spears with keen, broad-bladed heads.  "Master Rekk?" Halpan called out as the Dwarves approached, smiling for the first time that day.  "And Ingi—well met!  What brings you to this dreadful place?"

"What brought you, I guess," the brown-bearded Dwarf replied grimly.  "At your service, Halpan.  Do you not remember Oddi?  This is his kinsman, Bileg, son of Balnir."

"Not in gear of war," Halpan apologized.  "At your service, and your families', Masters.  Oddi, you will not know Tarain, who was Halladan's man—"

Oddi, black-bearded, bowed politely.  "I remember you at his right hand," he told the swordsman.

"And I remember your fair words to Gaernath," Tarain answered.

"—and Aniel, our huntsman.  And these, my kinsmen: Meagvir, Halgorn, and Dírmaen."

The Dwarves bowed, in their stiff way, their eyes a steady gleam behind the guards of their helms.  "At your service, Masters," Meagvir said, bowing in his turn.  "You must be some of the folk who aided our kinswoman Saelon and her people."

"Some of us are," the one called Rekk replied laconically.  He gazed down at the printed shore of the tarn.  "Is this the lair of the fiends?"

The raven belled for attention, then hopped towards him.  "Below," it said, in a hoarse voice.

"Under the water, Craec?" Rekk demanded.

"Yes."

They all—the Men, anyway—stood dumbfounded, staring at the bird.

"How many?"

It considered, then hopped to the nearest stone.  Six times it struck the rock with its beak, then paused.  "Nestling," it said, in strange sibilants, and pecked once more.

Rekk grunted in dour satisfaction.  "Does your skill tell you different, Aniel?"

The huntsman shook his head, wondering.  "Not with certainty.  I would have guessed five or six."

Dírmaen reached into his pouch, broke a piece off of the dried salmon he carried there, and held it out towards the raven.  It leapt into the air and came to his arm, cocking its head and staring at him with bright black eyes before taking the bit of fish.

"So you hunt these things, too?" Halgorn asked.

"One slew my brother," Rekk declared.

"And my son," Oddi added.

"Thyrnir is not with you?"  Halpan was still frowning uneasily at the raven.  Dírmaen wondered why it troubled him, if he knew the Dwarf well.

"No."  Rekk was frowning at the tarn, fingers drumming on the shaft of his spear.

"Nestling," repeated Oddi, staring down at the smaller tracks.  "They are breeding?"

"So we were guessing," Aniel growled.

"What did you mean to do, once you tracked the fiends?" Oddi asked.  "You are ill-equipped for slaying such creatures."

"We are scouting," Halgorn explained.  He was looking at those fearsome spears with interest.  "I have never heard that Dwarves used spears, or seen ones like these before."

"Spears such as yours are unhandy in tunnels," Oddi observed.  "These we use against trolls."

"Yes."  Halgorn nodded, eyes gleaming.  "That would be good for a troll.  Or, good for the one who wielded it, not the troll!"

Oddi gave a clipped, wry laugh.  "Have you slain trolls?"

"Twice.  You?"

"Orcs only.  Bileg has, however, and Rekk."

Dírmaen considered the four small, heavily armed Dwarves.  He had not heard that trolls came out of the Blue Mountains.  Yet it had been only fifty years since the War of the Dwarves and the Orcs; chances were that some, if not all of them, were veterans of that long and dreadful quest for vengeance.  If they would fight six years for the honor of a landless king, what would they do for their own near kin?  "Do you mean to attack the fiends when they come forth tonight?"

"Rekk?"  Oddi looked to the one who seemed to be their leader.

Tugging his plaited beard, Rekk made a noise like an irritated bear.  "My heart says yes, but my head says no.  How can we come at them, if they take refuge in the water?  If we do not slay them, they will harry us as we retreat.  And six . . . .  I had not expected so many."  He looked up at Halpan sourly.  "Veylin has the right of it, I guess.  Here, spearsman—" he tossed his spear to him "—would you like to carry that against a fiend?"

Halgorn watched enviously as the younger man handled it.  "With a longer shaft . . . and more weight at the butt—" Halpan examined the steely edges of the point "—very much."  He sighed sadly.  "We cannot pay you for them, you know."

"The death of a fiend would pay for much," Rekk answered.  "We will let Veylin and Saelon hammer out those details between them.  All I ask is that I do not find myself on the wrong end of it.  This is not that pig-sticker you pointed at me before."

"So long as you keep your hands off Saelon," Halpan replied, as droll, "you should be safe."

As the Rangers stared, Rekk gave a bark of a laugh.  "Why did you not bring her, and that fire-haired stripling?  We could have staked him out and given her the spear.  If she will attack three armed Dwarves bare-handed, she is mad enough for anything."  Oddi snorted in agreement.

Clearly, they were friendly with these Dwarves; very friendly.  Yet what they were jesting about sounded as if it ought to have led to as bloody a feud as you would hate to try to bring to an end.  This Rekk had laid hands on Saelon?  Saelon had attacked the Dwarves?  How was it that she was not dead?  He suggested baiting the _raug_ with Gaernath, the boy whose loyalty had so shamed Halpan.  Had she fought in his defense?  Dírmaen could imagine her fierce as a falcon protecting her eyass.

The raven tweaked his finger.  "More?" it asked in that strange voice, staring at him with its unfathomable eyes.

Grinning, Halpan tossed the spear back to Rekk.  "Are you heading back now?  We would be glad of your company on the way."

"Back, yes, but not to Veylin's.  We came from the north."  The reserve Dírmaen associated with Dwarves was abruptly back, but after a moment Rekk offered, "If you would like to spend the short hours of the night in greater security, we will be stopping at an old dwarf-house on our way.  You would be welcome."

"Is there room for our horses as well?"

"You Men and your long-legged beasts," the Dwarf grumbled.  "No, you would not be able to get them through the door."

"Then we must decline," Halpan said regretfully.  "But thank you for your offer."

"Look for us later in the summer," Rekk told him.  "We can discuss the spears then.  Fare well, and good luck on your road."

"And you on yours."

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Notes

**Glencoe** : a glen on the northern border of Argyll, known today mainly for its wildlife and splendid (though dangerous) rockclimbing.  It is infamous, however, as the site of the massacre, in 1692, of the MacDonalds of Glencoe by their treacherous guests, Campbell troops under government orders to "extirpate that sept of thieves."  Lest anyone think the flight of the survivors of Srathen Brethil across the Blue Mountains in December heroic, the Glencoe Massacre took place at dawn in a February blizzard, and half-dressed women and children were forced to take refuge in the high corries to avoid the slaughter.  Some actually survived.

**Dúnadan** : Sindarin, "man of the west"; the singular and masculine form of Dúnedain.

**Corrie** : Scots, a [cirque, or glacially eroded valley head](http://www.geographypages.co.uk/corrie.jpg); picturesquely described as an "armchair hollow."

**Shielings** : summer pastures for cattle and other livestock, usually on hills well away from settlements with their fields of grain.  You don't need to build so many fences if you take most of the stock up to the shielings, and can cut the grass near the settlement for hay.

**Reiver** : Scots, raider, chiefly of cattle; a cattle rustler.

**Droveway** : a cattle track, especially one used to move herds long distances.

**Brock** (also badger, _Taxidea taxus_ ): a large, thickset, burrowing member of the weasel family.

**Woodruff** ( _Galium odoratum_ ): a sweet-smelling strewing and medicinal herb.

**Flags** (also yellow iris, _Iris pseudacorus_ ): a wetland plant, with medicinal uses.

**Byre** : cow shed, building for housing stock.  While many medieval and early modern Highland homes were byre-houses, where the people lived in one end and the cattle in the other, richer families and settlements often had separate byres.

**Cott** : small farmhouse; the residence of a cottar.

**Ricks** : [haystacks](http://www.hayinart.org/images/2828.jpg).

**Downfall** : the Adûnaic name for lost Númenor, Akallabêth, means "the Downfallen."

**Aspen** (or trembling popular, _Populus tremula_ ): in the Highlands, the sound of the wind in its leaves was thought to inspire foresight, or resemble the nagging chatter of women, but the tree was regarded with superstition and fear.

**War of the Dwarves and the Orcs** (2793–2799): Thráin's war of vengeance and quest for Azog, the Orc-chief who slew his father Thrór, the heir of Durin.  Dwarves of other Houses joined with the Longbeards to destroy every den of Orcs they could find between Gundobad and the Gladden.  It ended with the battle of Azanulbizar (which the Elves call Nanduhirion) in the valley before the East-gates of Khazad-dûm, where Náin (nephew of Thrór) was slain by Azog; Azog was slain by Náin's young son, Dáin Ironfoot (later King of the Mountain in Erebor); and Thorin earned the name "Oakenshield."

**Eyass** : an unfledged falcon (or hawk), taken from the nest for falconry.  The female adult bird is a falcon, the male a tiercel.  Falcons are larger than tiercels, and more desirable for hunting.


	6. Proper Place

_The barbarian loves his own pride, and hates, or disbelieves in, the pride of others.  I will be a civilized being, I will love the pride of my adversaries, of my servants, and my lover; and my house shall be, in all humility, in the wilderness a civilized place.  Pride is faith in the idea that God had, when he made us.  A proud man is conscious of the idea, and aspires to realize it.  He does not strive towards a happiness, or comfort, which may be irrelevant to God's idea of him.  . . .  Love the pride of God beyond all things, and the pride of your neighbor as your own.  The pride of lions: do not shut them up in Zoos.  The pride of your dogs: let them not grow fat.  Love the pride of your fellow-partisans, and allow them no self-pity._

\--Isak Dinesen, "Of Pride," _Out of Africa_

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"This is not," the dry Dwarven voice rumbled, "where the rill falls over the shelf."

"I was moving that way," Saelon replied, plucking one last sprig before straightening up and meeting Veylin's gaze.  "You have excellent stonecrop here . . . and my errand is not so urgent that I need hasten to your door."

His russet brows unknit a little.  "I am glad to hear it.  What has brought you—besides the excellence of the herbs?"  Setting both hands on the head of his stick, he waited for her answer.  In his shirtsleeves, without cloak or hood, he might have stepped just outside his door, although there was nothing resembling a door to be seen.

"Do you know the Rangers?"

"The Men of the Star?  Yes, our paths often cross, on the roads," he said, little plainer than she had been.  "Is that who your Chieftain has sent to aid you?"

If he knew they were under the command of the Chieftain, he knew enough.  "Six of them."

"Six!" he exclaimed, brows knitting again.  "Why so many?"

"You think that over-generous, too?  And these are not young men," she added, "save one, but stern Dúnedain of full age."

Veylin was scanning the slope below them.  "Were you followed?"

"I do not think so," Saelon told him, hefting her basket.  "I have rambled much after my herbs.  And three are away, scouting Srathen Brethil with Halpan and others, while the nights are so short.  Yet," she admitted, "they are Rangers.  Who can tell?"

He grunted.  "Come," he urged, gesturing for her to follow and stumping up the slope.  "This is no conversation to have in the open air."

The path he took wound much, but was less of a scramble than she had expected.  The rill made a pretty little fall where it dropped off the shelf, even now when there had been no rain for some days.  Thyrnir stood on the ledge, beside a tumble of fallen rock.  "Greetings, Saelon," he began.

"Not now," Veylin said shortly.  "There may be prying eyes about.  Let us get inside."

Thyrnir led her to a narrow cleft behind a great angled slab that had fallen from above; ducking her head, she followed him.  A few paces in, as the light grew dim and she began to wonder where this was meant to go, a rough grotto opened on the right hand.  Picking up a rock from the floor, Thyrnir knocked against the wall, a quick staccato rhythm.

The wall of the grotto cracked . . . and swung outwards, pushed by a blond-bearded Dwarf she did not know.  "In," Veylin pressed, as she stood and gaped, prodding her with his stick to break the spell of amazement.  Only after Thyrnir helped the blond draw the stone door shut again did he heave a sigh and smile.  "Welcome to my halls, Saelon," he said warmly, and bowed.

She gazed around as she curtseyed in return.  Here the stone was dark, rougher-textured than that of her cliff, but though it had not been finished as finely as the hall they had delved for her, this was a larger and more elaborate entryway, with an alcove and seat for a doorwarden.  The blond doorwarden was regarding her with surprised curiosity.

"This is Oski, son of Onar," Veylin introduced him.

"Saelon, at your service," she greeted him.

"At yours and your family's, Lady," he replied, bowing deeply.  Of course; they would have heard of her.

"Come," Veylin invited.  "Let us go into the hall."

When she followed him through the next door and into a high-roofed space, Saelon better understood how her hall could be described as small.  Six pillars, like the boles of mighty ash trees, upheld the wide vault.  Between them, lamps hung from long chains, casting a faint light in the cavernous darkness.  Marveling, she trailed after Veylin to the better-lit space before a great hearth cut back into the wall.  It held only a modest fire—it was summer—but Saelon still found ample cause to stare.  "You burn rock?" she wondered aloud.  It was all wondrous, like something out of a tale.

"Have you never seen coal?" he asked, taking a chunk from a wide-mouthed metal pail and passing it to her.

It was black as jet, but harder, with a shine like a broken glass bead.  "No."  They burned this?

"Sit," he indicated a low cushioned seat, "and tell me about these Rangers."  They had lost Thyrnir as they crossed the hall.

Saelon eyed the seat dubiously, still fingering the glassy coal.  It looked too low for comfort, or ease in getting up again, but remembering how awkward the Dwarves found her benches, she lowered herself into it.  "They arrived six days ago, courteous and considerate; concerned kinsmen, asking how they might best aid us."

"That they asked should be reassuring," Veylin remarked, settling into the seat across from her and laying his stick on a stool beside.  It was not the sturdy blackthorn she had seen him carry when he visited her, but polished cherrywood, with a ferrule that gleamed warmly in the lamplight.

"Aye, it should be," she allowed, troubled by her unease with the Rangers, or at least Râdbaran.  "Their leader, Râdbaran, is very polite, though there are shrewd questions behind his pleasing words.  He is curious about our dealings with Dwarves."

"And what have you told him?"

"Nothing he could not have heard from others, though there is no telling what some may have said."  Saelon was not ashamed of her friendship with Veylin, but neither had she made much of it.  Perhaps some of the Dwarves' reticence was rubbing off on her.  "He says he wishes to talk to you about the _raugs_."

Veylin shrugged.  "I know no more than you do.  Less than Tarain or Aniel."

"So I have told him.  Either he does not believe me, or it is a pretext."  There; she had said it.

"For what?"

She did not want to give a false impression of the man; although she misliked his manner, she respected him.  "He seems a man who wishes to understand before judging.  Our measure he has taken," she admitted, pained that it had been so easily done.  "He has sent half his men to learn more of the _raugs_ and Srathen Brethil.  Your part still eludes him."

Thyrnir came, bearing a tray with a silver flagon and matching cups, and a silver plate of small seed-cakes.  Laying it on one of the settles beside the hearth, he poured and offered her a cup and the cakes.

Taking the cup, her eye caught on the intricate inlay below the rim, almost the same dusky red as the liquid within.  Her breath caught at the beauty . . . and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the richness around her.  Dwarves were fabulously wealthy, so all the tales said, but one vaguely imagined heaps of hoarded gold and silver and gems, not such splendid, luxurious things for use . . . or at least she had not.

She had known that her people were straitened, but not that they were poor, not that they had always been poor, not until she saw this unimagined opulence.  And it was all Veylin's?  Was it any wonder he was so secret, with such treasures to guard?  It came home to her that she knew little about the Dwarf herself, though she had presumed to consider him a friend.

"What is wrong?" Veylin asked.  "Would you prefer mead to wine?"

"This is wine?  True wine, from grapes?"  Saelon stared into the dark redness and smelt its fruity bouquet.  "I have never had it, so I do not know."  She sipped: not so sweet as mead, lighter, but more robust than their flower wines.  "Very nice," she said, and took a cake.  What good could come from confessing her pang of insignificance, the sense of smallness in the face of the grandeur of the Dwarves?  It would sound absurd; and she did not desire pity.

Yet perhaps it was good for her to have seen this.  Râdbaran's curiosity about the Dwarves seemed well justified now.  Why would those so rich ally themselves with folk so poor as hers?

Veylin was still gazing at her, dissatisfied, as Thyrnir handed him his cup and asked her, "Did I hear you say that Men have gone to Srathen Brethil?'

"Yes," she answered, glad for the question, something to distract her.  "Three of the Rangers, one of whom has experience slaying evil things, with Halpan, Tarain, and Aniel.  They left three days ago, and meant to be there yesterday, when the day was longest."

"They will have company."  Thyrnir brought over a seat to join them, then took up his wine.  "Rekk and Oddi have gone likewise."

"You did not think," Veylin asked her, lowering his cup, "that we might wish to do the same?"

Was that reproach, for not letting them know of the journey in time for them to join it?  "They did not take counsel with me beforehand," she replied shortly.  "Only told me of the plan the day before they departed, when they sought rations for the journey.  Men's work," she sniffed, and silenced herself with the cool silver of the cup and the warmth of the wine.

The silence, as the two Dwarves sat there, regarding her, was oppressive, relieved only by the small sounds of the fire; pings and clinks as alien as the inscrutable gleam of their eyes.  "So," Veylin finally asked, "you have come to fetch me to speak with this Ranger?"

"I came," she replied, rising with more grace than she would have thought possible from that low seat, "because you wished to know if there was talk of moving us.  At present, Râdbaran puts off the question, but I expect him to decide before he departs—and if he does not find the report from Srathen Brethil favorable, I suspect that he will insist we all accompany him."  Setting cup and cake down on an arm of the seat, she said, "I thank you for the wine, but I should not idle here, gossiping."

"Gossiping?" Veylin exclaimed, taken aback.  "Nothing you do is idle.  What has distressed you, Saelon?  Is my hospitality too much kindness for you, or—" those deep-set eyes glittered in the flickering of the lamps "—do you mislike the weight of so much stone over your head?"

"I have dwelt for a score of years under near as much," she declared.  Though, in truth, it was not the same.  Her cave had been open to the sky; and the hall at Habad-e-Mindon was neither so dark nor so silent as this one.

"So, it is your pride that is tender," he said with quiet gravity, interlacing his fingers between the arms of his seat.  "I thought we had settled that between us in Girithron.  This Râdbaran galls you, for all his courtesy?"

"I did not know about this—" she swept her arm around, taking in the hall, everything "—in Girithron."

"What difference would it have made?  Would you have asked more of me?"

"Asked more?"  She had not thought of payment when she saved his life.  He was the one who had insisted on the debt, and pressed the priceless gift of the hall on her.  "Did I ask for anything?"

Veylin looked at her very strangely.  "Would you ever have asked for anything?"

He sounded curious rather than angry.  She was the only one who seemed to be angry.  After several long breaths for thought, she confessed, "I do not know."

"Then what does all this matter, if you do not regret not having a larger share of it?  Or will not even take a bite of hospitality?  If that is too rich for your tastes," he offered, nodding at the seed-cake, "I can send Thyrnir to the shore, to fetch seaweed for you to gnaw upon."

Seeing Thyrnir's look of uncertain trepidation, Saelon nearly choked on a laugh.  "You would not be so cruel."

"To be kind?"  Veylin put up a bushy russet brow in warning.  "Do not try me.  Come," he rumbled, "sit back down.  You seem to have come here to escape the courtesy of your kinsmen.  Tell me why the pleasing words of Râdbaran do not have you in a better temper."

She sat back down; the seat was more comfortable than it had looked.  "Because I suspect he would speak as pleasantly to his horse, if it would make the beast more biddable.  Not that that is a such a fault," she allowed, "but I am perverse enough to resent being humored into complaisance."

Thyrnir stared at her in disbelief and what might have been disappointment.  "You let his flattery sway you?"

Giving him an irritated look, she replied, "It sways others, and unless I wish to appear a surly shrew, it is better to smile and hold my tongue."

"A shrew?" Veylin asked, puzzled.  "The small, fierce creature?"

"That is what we call a woman who is forever finding fault, unreasonably complaining—an object of scorn."  Saelon bit into the seed-cake to take the bitterness from her mouth . . . and again.  She had not realized how much she craved bread until she tasted it.  How long had it been since she had eaten corn?  She could not remember; it was all she could do not to wolf the cake down.

When she finished, Thyrnir was holding out the plate.  Ashamed of her greed but unable to resist, she took another cake, forcing herself to nibble it.

She had not seen Veylin's face so stony since the morning they left to lay his companions to rest.  "They did not bring you corn?"

She shook her head.

He muttered something under his breath in the harsh Dwarvish tongue.  "It is consideration, to send you six more mouths and not the wherewithal to feed them?  Why would complaint be unreasonable?"

"Rangers are not sumpters."

Veylin gave a great chuff of disbelief—or distain.  "I do not expect Men to bear such burdens as Dwarves do, but they could not bring a few laden beasts with them?"  He paused, then asked distastefully, "Or do they wish your hunger to drive you when they point the way?"

She had not expected relief in the way of supplies, but put so, it did seem neglectful.  At the least.  "There would be little need.  Most would go where they were told, without complaint."

"Why?"

"Have we not spent an Age of the world teaching Men to look to Dúnedain for leadership?"

"You are Dúnedain.  They would not stand by you, their Lady, if you remained?"

"Númenor may have had ruling Queens, but this side of the Sea, women are not equal in authority to men.  It is praiseworthy that I should keep my folk when all my near kinsmen are slain—" Râdbaran had not stinted there "—but now that capable men are at hand, I am expected to return to my proper place."

"What place is that?" Veylin asked, regarding her from under lowered brows.  "Living in a cave with one faithful fosterling?"

She shook her head and stared into the wine.  "That is lost to me," she said, throat tightening.  "Or at least until Halmir comes of age.  I cannot abandon them, whatever befalls; Halladan entrusted them to me."

"What is the use of that," Veylin growled, "if you have no real authority, and must bow to the wishes of whatever distant kinsman will trouble to take charge of you?  I saw you with your brother, Saelon, and I cannot think he would have wished such a—" he groped for a word he disliked enough "—a mockery on you.  Six days of flattery has made you quarrelsome; how do you think you could bear bending to another's will for years?"

Did she not know it?  Why else had she left Srathen Brethil, so long ago?  "What choice do I have?" she countered.  "How do Dwarves order such things, when your womenfolk must keep their people?"

"Such a thing has never come to pass."

"Never?!"  In the tales of the dark days of Men, there was almost always some strong-willed woman who held the hall or preserved the children, when the men had gone to war . . . or after they were slain.  Yet she could not immediately think of similar stories of Elves; their great women were renown beside their lords.  And the tales she knew did not speak of dwarf-women at all.

"Truly, never," he assured her.  "Yet no dwarf-woman would surrender her judgment to one she mistrusted, most certainly not for the simple reason that he was a man."

"If there has never been any dire need, how can you be sure?"

"Did you not once tell me that Dwarves are not known for their complaisance?" Thyrnir said blandly.

Saelon stared at him.  Did he mean that their women were as stiff-necked as themselves?  "Is that why you dwarf-men are so often from home?"  Among Men, that was often the way of it, when the wife had more will than the husband found pleasant.

Veylin eyed her in a way that made her think she had hit closer than he liked.  "Not for my part," he maintained stoutly.

The temptation to ask further questions—was Veylin wed?  were there any dwarf-women in this place?—was great, but she could see that, as ever, they were uneasy with the subject.  "Is that why you have been so tolerant of my willfulness?"

"Tolerate it?"  Veylin frowned as if she had made a lame jest.  "Your steadfast will is what sets you above the common frailty of your kind."

The frailty of women, or was he speaking of Men?  "Alas, few Men think strong will a virtue in a woman."

"Did your brother?"

Had he thought it a virtue?  Probably not; her obstinacy had given him much grief, let alone the trouble of riding so many leagues over the years.  There could be no doubt that he knew she would not willingly leave the sea.  Yet . . . had he counted on that, or had he expected her to sacrifice herself—as he had—for their people?  "My brother was an uncommon man."

And the brusque counsel of this Dwarf was the nearest she had come to one of their arguments since Halladan came last to Habad-e-Mindon.  Now that she had lost him, Veylin was the only one who spoke to her as an equal.

Staring at the garnet inlay on the silver wine cup, she thought how strange that was.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Saelon walked slowly along the strand, where the rising tide firmed the dry sand.  She had little time to give to the shore of late, and as she listened to the murmur of the surf, she wondered if much of her discontent was not due to her neglect of the sea.  Hopefully she would have the chance to amend; but at the least the sound soothed her, which she badly needed.  She particularly wished to keep both her temper and her wits about her during the conversation to come, even though she had arranged it here to avoid other ears.

Halmir halted at the edge of the dunes in a spray of sand, and turned back to look behind him.  Râdbaran came after, looking as if he found the difficult footing tiresome.  By the time he and Halmir joined her, however, he had regained his easy smile.  "What brings you to the shore, Lady?" he asked.  "Gathering more limpets?"

She smiled back, but her eyes narrowed at the reminder of pursuits he had hinted were beneath her station.  "No," she said, and forbore to repeat her explanation of the virtues of that humble creature.  "Eapag and her daughter are doing well now.  I often come here, to walk the strand and see what the sea brings me."  Stooping, she picked up a leaf of slake.  "This, for instance, is a wholesome food.  We would not have survived the winter without it.  Unfortunately, being unfamiliar and now from overuse, the children are loathe to eat it."  She placed it in her basket and sighed.  "I wish you had been able to bring us even a little grain.  A single horseload would have been invaluable for the weanlings."  Even he could not find this an unwomanly concern.

"I regret we did not know that you were in such dire straits, or we would have brought you some."

"I am surprised the Elves did not mention it, since they particularly objected to the tilling of the machair."

"If they did," Râdbaran assured her, "word did not reach me."

Perhaps it was true.  She did not know how their tale might have changed as it passed from mouth to mouth.  She shrugged.  "Ah, well . . . it is too late to be wishing for such things now.  We will have to wait until harvest, I suppose."  Reminding him, if walking past the fields had not, that they had crops in the ground, and would be loathe to move before then.  "How did they find things in Srathen Brethil?"  If they were thinking of moving them back there, at least that was nearer the sea than beyond the Lune, and they would probably leave them here until they had dealt with the _raugs_.  "Will you be able to clear the _raugs_ , so we can return?"

"We hope so, Lady.  We know where they nest, and how many there are.  But as you know better than I," he deferred handsomely, "these are terrible foes.  I wish to lay this before the Chieftain, to see what forces we can muster against them."

"Do not forget the Dwarves," she told him.  "They greatly desire vengeance, and would be keen to aid us."

Was that a jaded glint in his grey eye?  "So I hear, from Srathen Brethil as well.  But if you do not know where to find them, it will be difficult to include them in our plans."

If Veylin had not seen fit to come talk to Râdbaran in person, and Rekk had not made some tryst with the Rangers in Srathen Brethil, she certainly was not going to tell them where to seek the Dwarves.  When there was surer word of an attack on the _raugs_ , she could get word to them.  "What are your plans?  You said you wish to return to the Chieftain?"

Râdbaran was silent for several strides; Saelon bent to gather more slake; behind them, Halmir was studying their tracks in the sand and experimenting with his own.  Since the men had returned from Srathen Brethil, he had become enamored of tracking.  "Yes," was all the answer she got.

"Would all of you go?" she asked.  "Or would some of you remain with us?"

"I think it would be good to leave some, since your men are so few.  Yet perhaps," he observed, "they would be more of a burden than a help, with food so scant."

She must be careful how she chastised him.  "So long as they can hunt and fish, they ought to be able to feed more than themselves."

He considered her, thoughtful.  "If some of your folk wish to go as well, the need might be further reduced."

Saelon smiled regretfully, to assure him she was not opposed to the possibility.  "Urwen, I know, has long wished to go to her kin in the Emyn Uial, and I am sure there are others who have not opened their hearts to me.  If any wish to go, and you are willing to take them, you all have my blessing."  Let the unhappy go; they bred discontent among those who would be willing to remain.  Few of them would be much loss.

Râdbaran bowed his distinguished steel-grey head.  "There are two in particular I would like to take," he hazarded, "but I am not sure you will look favorably on their departure."

She had thought he would be pleased to merely reduce their numbers, not that he desired anyone in particular.  "Who?"

He glanced behind them.  Halmir had paused some way back, poking at a tangle of wrack.  "Your nephew."  Râdbaran was watching her closely.  "He is a fine boy.  However, he will not be able to learn what he needs to be a fine lord of his people here."

Tight-lipped, Saelon nodded.  That was true.  "That has troubled me since his father's death," she admitted.  "What would you propose?"

"Would you foster him with me, Lady?" Râdbaran asked boldly, then grew circumspect again.  "Granted, you do not know me or my estate, and," he flicked a grey eyebrow, "I sometimes think you do not like me.  All I can say is that I am near kin to the Chieftain, and—"

"—high enough in his favor to be entrusted with the task of disentangling stray sheep from the affairs of Lindon and the Dwarves?  I do not know you by reputation," she agreed, "but I hope I have taken some measure of you by now.  I would like you better if you did not so plainly desire me to settle down by the hearth to spin or attend to some other womanly chore now that you have come," she told him bluntly, "but my liking is neither here nor there.  I think you are a man of honor and irritatingly adroit in statecraft.  It is Halmir's liking we must consult.  He is old enough to have some judgment in such things.  Shall we ask him now?"

That earned her a long, penetrating stare.  "Perhaps I should wonder where you learned to weigh such matters . . . instead of spinning."

"Healing teaches one judgment, and necessity is a stern master," she replied.  "I have tried to learn from all I have met.  Some, including the coastwarden of Lindon, have been so good as to give me counsel."

From his look, he was wondering exactly who had counseled her, and how.  "Certainly, let us ask Halmir."

"Halmir!" Saelon called, and he came running up.  "Halmir, Râdbaran has asked if he might foster you, so you can learn lordship under his tutelage and become acquainted with all the chief of our people.  Would that please you?  If you say yes," she warned, "you will not be able to change your mind lightly.  It is a long journey, and a perilous one these days."  She considered her nephew closely, but from his eager face, she knew what his answer would be.  "You do not have to decide this moment, if you are unsure."

"Yes, I would like it very much," Halmir said, with barely decent restraint.

He was a boy, and very much wanted to be a man; she was fond of him, but he did not prize it.  Not now.  "Then you shall go, and have Tarain as your man."

"Really?"

"Yes, in case you wish to send us a message, and Râdbaran has no men to spare; or to bring you back to us should you feel the need."

"Perhaps I should speak now of the second I would ask of you, Lady.  It might ease your mind to know Halmir would have near kin at hand, when he is so far away and among strangers."  She was expecting Râdbaran to ask for Rian as well—to strip them of all of Halladan's line—and was preparing her objections, when he said, "As sore a loss as Tarain will be, though, I fear.  I would like to invite Halpan to become a Ranger, but not without your good will."

"Halpan!"  Suddenly she saw herself shorn of all her Dúnedain kin.  For Urwen would surely go, and Bereth with her if Halpan did not stay.  And how could she ask Rian to stay, if both brother and cousins went?  Was that Râdbaran's true desire, to pull the Dúnedain from the wreck?  To leave the rest to fend for themselves as best they might; and she, so wrong-headed as to have no husband and no children . . . .

She felt her rage rise, but throttled it tight.  If they would go, she ought not chain them here.  And Halpan, as much as Halmir, deserved wider scope than this narrow shore.  "That is kind, indeed—to him," she agreed, "though not to me.  We cannot give him what he needs to grow, either, and I would not see him stunted like one of our wind-writhen trees.  You might have had him in any case, if tragedy had not befallen us, for he loves to see new places.  He has my good will, whatever he decides."

Halmir laughed joyfully.

Râdbaran bowed.  "You are generous, Lady, to give the Dúnedain your nearest kinsmen."

The look she gave him in return was cool.  "The Dúnedain have always had them."  She walked the sand in silence for some paces.  "So what would you give me in exchange, Râdbaran?  As you have yourself acknowledged, they will be a sore loss."

"Would Meagvir and Dírmaen be acceptable to you?"

"The quiet one?"

Râdbaran smiled.  "Yes, Dírmaen is a quiet one, but do not misjudge him because of that.  His woodcraft is superb.  He will assuredly be able to feed more than himself."

"I know of no objections to either," Saelon allowed, "but both were away several days to Srathen Brethil.  I have had so little chance to become acquainted with them.  Shall we talk to each other's people, and see how we suit?  Then we can see who is willing to companion whom."

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Notes

**Stonecrop** (biting stonecrop, also wall pepper; _Sedum acre_ ): medicinal herb.  Or perhaps _seregon,_ "blood of the stone," a stonecrop with deep red flowers found in Beleriand in the First Age.

**Coal** : what peat becomes when it's been buried long and deep enough.  There are various grades of coal, from the softest, lowest-carbon [lignite](http://geology.com/rocks/pictures/coal-lignite.jpg); to [bituminous or soft coal](http://www.caer.uky.edu/kyasheducation/images/ccbs/Bituminous600.jpg); and [anthracite or hard coal](http://www.pitt.edu/~cejones/GeoImages/6MetamorphicRocks/Anthracite/AnthraciteBlueBackground.jpg), which burns hot and clean.  This is anthracite.

**Jet** : a black, easily carved semi-precious stone commonly used for jewelry and ornaments in Bronze Age Britain, and again in Victorian times for mourning jewelry; actually a variety of soft coal.

**Blackthorn** (also sloe, _Prunus spinosa_ ): small thorny tree used for hedges with white flowers March through May; its tough wood valued for making clubs and walking sticks (most notably the Irish _[shillelagh](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0f/Assorted_shillelagh.JPG/450px-Assorted_shillelagh.JPG)_ ).

**Ferrule** : ring or cap of metal, which prevents a wooden shaft from splitting or wear.

**Sumpter** : Middle English, one who drives a packhorse; in later English, it refers to the beast.

**Slake** (also sloke or laver, _Porphyra umbilicalis_ ): [edible seaweed](http://www.marlin.ac.uk/imgs/o_porumb.jpg), eated boiled and buttered, fried, or made into cakes.  It was believed that a person could live on this alone, even while doing heavy labor.


	7. When It Is Dark Enough--

_Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;  
_ _Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of man  
_ _In me or, most weary, cry_ I can no more _.  I can;  
_ _Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be._

\--Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Carrion Comfort"

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Saelon sat on her rock, hot though it was under the Urui sun, surrounded by the relieving splash of water, and wished that Râdbaran had gotten his wish and stripped her of all her Dúnedain kin.  It was Halpan's doing that he had not: gratified by Râdbaran's invitation, proud to be thought worthy, he had been as eager to go as Halmir . . . but old enough to feel guilt at deserting them, and the bonds of blood and oath.  He had insisted that Handin and Hanadan remain, raised among their people, a promise that the Dúnedain would not abandon those who had been faithful.

The boys would have been little trouble; but their mother, in turn, would not abandon them.  Her quarrel with their father's brother had been vehement and finally savage, impossible to conceal in the closeness of the hall.  Halpan had emerged from their chamber white-faced, though he won his point.  At the cost, to those who remained, of Urwen's flaunted bitterness.  She made a living martyr of herself, growing thinner and paler and harsher as the weeks passed, fretfully awaiting the return of Râdbaran or some other Ranger to take her home to Emyn Uial.

It was almost a pity that the two Rangers who remained were such plain-spoken men.  Though more to Saelon's taste than the politic Râdbaran, a fortnight of his gallant talk had sickened Urwen with the—as she called it—coarseness of the company here.  Meagvir and Dírmaen, like the other men, avoided her easily enough by attending to their work, and in the fine weather of summer, it was often pleasant to sleep outside under the stars, now that fear of the _raugs_ pressed less closely.  Early riser though she was, Saelon often found Dírmaen abroad in the dusk of dawn.

The women, however, tied to the hall and yard by their work or their children, had fewer escapes.  Urwen's habitual companions—Bereth, Eithel, and Rian—were growing sour and snappish themselves.  Fransag's placid good temper was fraying fast, already tried by her colicky babe and the bastard Sitheag had just given Maelchon.  Lis had seen fit to compliment Sitheag on the babe's ruddy health, and near had her eyes scratched out by Gràinne, infuriated by the implied insult to her newest granddaughter.  And Sorcha would not speak to her, because she had sent Tarain away with Halmir.

So though the air prickled with the loom of a coming storm, close and sweaty, Saelon had taken refuge amid the grumbling surge of the turbid, choppy sea.  Whatever bolts might fall, they could not be worse than the festering rumbles of thunder nearer shelter.  She was reflecting that Veylin was unlikely to have a store of pithy Dwarven wisdom on the subject of feuding women—or would be unwilling to admit it—and wondering what kind of horror a dwarf-bitch might be when she heard the drumming hoofbeats of horses, several horses, coming towards the shore across the machair.

Saelon rose to stand on the rock, trying to glimpse the riders through the sandhills.  What could the urgency be, and why more than a single rider?  Had someone been injured in a hunting accident, as she perpetually feared?  Had Râdbaran returned with the Chieftain's decision?  Were the Dwarves coming to visit?  Was it merely a lark, the older boys coming to race on the wave-hardened shore?

A fine bay she did not recognize skidded awkwardly in the loose sand of the gap, pulled up hard at the brink by its rider—Halpan?!—before coming down the steep face on its haunches.  The two that followed, beautiful black-pointed greys bearing tall, dark riders, took the shifting footing with ease.

"Halpan!" she cried, in welcome and astonishment, waving her arm.

He cantered right up to the rock, the horse splashing through the water, mingling the froth of its sweat with the sea-foam.  "Oh, Saelon!" he cried, no delight in seeing her, only shattering grief, his face haunted, and flung his arms around her, dragging her from her perch.

It took a cunning writhe to land on the horse before him, and she might still have ended up in the water if the beast had not been so blown that it stood stolidly under the shock.  "What is it?" she demanded, his distress kindling a flash of terror.  "Halmir—?"  As he buried his face in her shoulder, she saw the other horsemen had halted at the water's edge.

He shook his head.  "No."  But the look in his lifted face was that she had seen when Tarain told him Halladan was dead.

"Tell me!"

"Arathorn has been slain.  By a _raug_ , in Srathen Brethil."

Saelon looked at the waiting riders again, wondering who they were.  "That is dreadful news," she said, but though it was a shock—the Chieftain had gone to Srathen Brethil himself?  Why had no one brought them word of an attempt to clear the _raugs_?—Arathorn was no more than a name to her.  "But why so wild?  Come, take me ashore and introduce me to your companions."

"We come to take you all east," Halpan told her baldly, and she saw he was wounded as deeply by remorse or guilt as by grief.  And that the two who waited were Elven-fair.

"Be that as it may," she said, throat suddenly tight.  She slid from his horse as they approached the two and shook down her skirts, preferring the dignity of standing while hearing judgment.  The riders dismounted as well; even so, they towered over her, taller than her brother had been, but not so tall as Falathar, the only other Elf she had met.

"This is my cousin, the Lady Saelon," Halpan introduced her.  "Saelon, these are Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond Half-Elven, boon companions of Arathorn."

It seemed her fate to meet high folk unprepared and draggled.  "I grieve with you, lords," she said, dropping a sodden-skirted curtsey.  "As must we all.  Yet let me welcome you to Habad-e-Mindon."

They were twins, too alike to tell apart.  "Thank you, Lady," the one on the left replied.  "Forgive the manner of our arrival, and the abruptness of the news."

Saelon met his eyes; as these two were not as tall as Falathar, their gaze was not as overpowering.  "If there was fault, it was in my kinsman's manners, not yours.  And if he has finally seen what these _raugs_ do, I forgive him."

"You have seen it yourself."  It was not a question.

"Yes."

"Then you will understand why we wish to see your people to safety, and quickly.  Some of the _raugs_ have scattered, and we hear one has already been here."

She might as well make her stand with the waves lapping at her feet.  "No, I am afraid I do not.  Yes, there was an attack this side of the mountains, nearly a year ago, but that was well inland and there have been no others.  Is there some reason to think the _raugs_ will come so far, or that they no longer shun the sea?"

"Saelon!" Halpan hissed, shocked.  "Do you know who you are speaking to?"

She looked up at him.  "Halpan, you are distraught.  Calm yourself.  Ride up to the hall, please, if you have not already been there, to bid them make ready for our guests.  Speak to your sister or Rian.  You will wish to avoid Urwen."

He gaped at her for a moment, then collected himself behind a coldly bleak stare and rode away.

She watched him go, with a troubled sigh, then turned back to the sons of Elrond.  "It must have been terrible," she observed somberly, "to affect him so."

"He ought not have gone, so young and inexperienced," the one on the right told her, "but Arathorn yielded to his pleas.  What have you seen, Lady, that you are so little moved by the peril?"

"The wreck of three Dwarves, and only one to be saved.  A foresighted woman who has always scorned me seeking my protection.  My brother's helm, far too clean, in the hands of his sworn man.  Seven months without corn, and near fifty mouths to feed."  So much; so much death and despair, and now this on top of all.  "Six Rangers, but not a sack of grain.  And none of them willing to heed a woman.  Simplest, surely, to clear Srathen Brethil and stick us back there.  Well," she said bitterly, "we have all paid for that now.  Did anyone seek aid from the Dwarves?"

She waited.  For all she cared, they could ride away and leave them here.  In fact, she would prefer it.

"You must pardon us," the one on the right said.  "Much of this we have not heard before."

"Whether it was sought, I do not know," replied the first, "but we had no aid from Dwarves."

It was as senseless and unnecessary as the Dwarves' attack on her and Gaernath almost a year ago, but no one had died because of that moil.  The Chieftain of the Dúnedain slain, riding off to hunt _raugs_ as cavalierly as if they were boar: Aniel, who knew their spoor better than any man alive, sworn to their deaths; the Dwarves and their matchless weapons, the only ones known to bite these things . . . uninvited, disregarded.  It made one want to weep.

"Come up to the hall," she said.  "If you have ridden from Srathen Brethil, I am sure you are in need of refreshment.  You might wish to learn something of our history as well, before committing us to another ill-considered course of action."

She cooled enough to be amazed at their forbearance as they walked across the machair, past the gently waving bere, heads already heavy with fine, full ears of milky grain.  A month; only a month until harvest, and they wished them to leave now.  More foolish, wasteful haste.

The Rangers came swiftly to meet them, at the foot of the track.  "Elladan, Elrohir—is it true?" Meagvir cried.  "Arathorn is slain?"

"It is true."

The looks on their faces: the Chieftain had not been merely a name to them, but a dearly loved lord.

"Let me see to your horses," Dírmaen offered, and took the greys, stroking their proud necks as if they, too, required comfort.

At the top of the track was a seething mass of people; only their awe of the Elven lords kept them decently at bay.  Halpan had spoken.  Of course Halpan had spoken.

"Must we go now?"  Maelchon: bewildered, near anger.  "The bere is nearly ripe!"

Eithel: the whites of her eyes showing like a skittish filly, daring to demand.  "Mother wants our packsaddles and horses brought up, and Unagh's help in taking the web from the loom."

"When?"

Muirne, clutching her new babe to her breast with a terrified look on her face.

"Where?"

"Meagvir," Saelon asked, "will you please take our guests to the cave?"  She could not imagine what the hall would be like, not if Urwen was already calling for packhorses.  "I believe they will be more comfortable there.  I will come shortly with some refreshment."

The Ranger looked from her people to her.  When he merely said, "Very good, Lady," and took the sons of Elrond away, she liked him better than ever.

"Gaernath," Saelon called sharply, seeing his flaming hair and eager face among the crowd, "come here.  The rest of you," she declared, unable to keep her displeasure out of her voice, "might give our guests a bit of peace: they are in mourning, and have ridden hard from Srathen Brethil.  If you do not have something useful to do, gather in the hall; I will speak to you shortly."

Taking Gaernath's arm, she marched him down to the old byre-cave, now their chief storehouse.  "They are Elven lords?" he asked earnestly as they went.  He had been sorely disappointed to miss a glimpse of the Fair Folk when the ship came from Lindon.

"They are the sons of Elrond Half-Elven.  Is that Elf enough for you?  I need you to take word of this to Veylin.  They have come to take us from here."

His shining delight dimmed, as if a cloud had passed across the sun.  "Why?"

"I do not have time to explain.  You must go now.  I will tell you later."

"How am I to find him?  We do not know where the Dwarves dwell."

Saelon glanced around to be sure no one was near enough to hear.  Those who were left on the cliff-shelf had gathered in knots of two or three, murmuring amongst themselves.  "North, two leagues beyond the cairn you raised, half a league inland, there is a high, flat-topped hill.  On the northwest is a rill; go to where it falls over a ledge, halfway up the slope, and wait.  I do not think you will have to wait long."  She paused, trying to gather her racing thoughts.  "If Veylin is not there, leave word: the Chieftain of the Dúnedain has been slain by a _raug_ in Srathen Brethil, and the sons of Elrond have come to take us from here.  How soon, I cannot tell, but if he would be heard, he must not tarry.  You will remember all that?"

His face was as earnest, but grave now.  "Yes.  The great flat-topped hill, a rill on the northwest."

"Go.  You will be able to see the Fair Folk when you return."

He ran to fetch harness for his horse, and Saelon went along to the door the hall.

If they had been an ill-disciplined pack in the dooryard, here she wished for Teig and his whip.  Lis was turning towards her step-son's chamber from the hearth, carrying a griddle she had always fancied, as Fransag took up one of the larger spits with blind rage on her broad face.  Eithel was blithely trotting towards Urwen's chamber with an armload of washing that had been drying on the thornbushes without.  Artan had Muirne in his arms, though he looked near as terrified as the lass herself.  Fokel and Bred were squabbling over a heap of sacks, while Uspag howled in the corner, abandoned by whomever was supposed to be tending him.

"Fransag!" Saelon barked.  "Put that down!  Lis, where do you think you are going with that?"

Fransag stilled, except for the clenching of her big fist around the iron bar.  Lis chirped, "Have you not heard, Saelon?  We are leaving, as soon as we may."

"That," Saelon said into the sudden quiet, with great clarity and coldness, "has not been decided.  And in any case, that griddle does not belong to you.  We have high-born guests to attend to," she scathed them.  "This is no time to strip the hearth.  Are you all mad, to be carrying on in this way?  Where is Halpan?"

"In Urwen's chamber," Murdag told her.

"Is anyone getting food and drink for our guests?"

"Rian, I believe."

Saelon strode into Urwen's chamber, the first time she had ever crossed that threshold.  Halpan was seated on the stone bench by the door, Bereth close beside, comforting him.  In the far corner, Urwen did not glance up from the kist she was packing, although Eithel paused in her folding, staring at the intrusion.  Saelon stood before the bench; Halpan and Bereth looked up at her.  "Did you tell folk to pack?" she asked.

Halpan shook his head, despairing.  "Only that they had come to take us away."

Urwen's impatience would have done the rest.  "That was ill-done, Halpan," Saelon told him.  "A fine impression we have made on our guests.  Will you come out and do what you can to bring some order, or must I do all myself, as usual?"

"Leave him be," Bereth snapped.  "Can't you see he is exhausted and torn with grief?"

"Then you go in his place."

Bereth wrapped her arms more firmly around her brother, glaring hatefully up at Saelon.  "It is your fault that we are here," she spat.

"I did not bring you here," Saelon reminded her, voice flat as she reined her own anger in hard.  Spiteful, useless; any of the cottar girls was more help.  "Nor am I the one who prevented you from leaving with Râdbaran."

Halpan shut his eyes and turned his head from that, then put off Bereth's embrace.  "I will come," he muttered.

Saelon left him there.  In the hall outside she found Rian hovering with a plate of berry-cakes and her elderflower wine, a fearful look on her face.  "Bless you, lass," she said, giving her niece a quick embrace.  "Will you come and serve?"

"Are we leaving?" she asked.

"I do not know.  Come and find out with me."

Outside, dark clouds full of thunder towered in the sky, threatening rain or worse.  Saelon thought of the crop in the field, which could so easily be beaten down; of the lad riding north at her order, to summon her only ally.  Then she knocked on what had been her doorpost.

Meagvir drew aside the leather drape, holding it for the two of them.

There was some comfort in being here, in the cave where she had dwelt so long, where every crevice and shadow was familiar as a friend.  It had grieved her to see it turned into a storeroom, but now that the Rangers lodged here, it was near as it was when it had been her home.  Dírmaen had not returned, but the sons of Elrond were there, seated on the floor against the coolness of the stone rather than on the bench.  "Lords, this is my brother's daughter, Rian.  Forgive me, but I cannot tell you apart, to introduce you properly."

They both smiled politely, rising.  "We are used to it," the one said, and bowed to Rian.  "I am Elladan, and my brother here is Elrohir.  Your brother Halmir we met before we left for Srathen Brethil, so I can tell you that he is well."

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, blushing prettily and giving a little bob as she balanced the platter.  "I am glad to hear it.  I hope," she went on, and Saelon could hear the quiver of anxiety in her voice, as she remembered how ill their hospitality had been received by the coastwarden of Lindon, "that you do not mind elderflower wine, because it is all we have, save water and whey."

"So long as it is wet," Elrohir assured her, "it will be welcome."

Indeed, they drank it gratefully enough, and did not scorn the sweetness of honey-clotted brambleberries.  After they had blunted their thirst and hunger, Elrohir asked, "Where is Halpan?"

"I left him in the care of his sister," Saelon assured him, softened somewhat by his concern, and his brother's courtesy to Rian.  "Will you tell us what befell in Srathen Brethil?  Granted, the loss has been grievous, but I am surprised to find Halpan so shattered."

As one, they looked from her to Rian, then back again.  She would have not have thought that their shining eyes could be so dark.

Yet considerate.  That, too, was different from Falathar.  Of course, if the tales told true, these were kinsmen, though fantastically remote.  "Rian," she said, "Bereth and Halpan may need help settling folk in the hall.  Will you go and do what you can as well?  Especially with the younger children."

"Of course."  There was relief as well as dutifulness in her voice.  "Thank you again for word of my brother," she told Elladan.

"You are welcome."  When the drape had stopped swinging behind her, Elladan looked at Saelon.  "How much do you already know of the _raugs_ in Srathen Brethil, Lady?"

"Everything our huntsman, Aniel, could tell me."

"This is the man who went with you at _loëndë_ , Meagvir?"

"Yes."

"I am surprised," Saelon said, "that it was not thought advisable to include him in the hunt.  Especially if experience was prized."

"If he had been nearer to hand, instead of on the far side of the Ered Luin, doubtless he would have been included," Elrohir replied, taking another berry-cake.  "He will have told you that these _raugs_ , as you call them, are breeding, and quickly.  Arathorn wished to destroy the nest before the days grew much shorter, or they spread to other waters—if they have not done so already."

"I had not considered that," she confessed.  "Yet surely, since their tracks are so strange, it would be easy to see if they are spreading."

"We do not know how much they may travel by water," Elladan pointed out.  "On the shoulders of the mountains, where the waters are small, they may often trek between them.  If they reached the Lhûn, however, they might suddenly appear anywhere from the Emyn Uial and the Tower Hills west.  The attack on this side of the mountains," he asked, "where was it, and do you know why there have been no more?"

"A wet bog a shade more than a league from here, north and east, at the foot of the hills.  The Dwarves wounded it—it left what would pass for a hand behind—and we assume it either died or retreated."  There was the crack and boom of near lightning; above the door, the sky showed black and heavy.

Elrohir shook his head.  "As strange to find Dwarves this side of the mountains.  Had they already been molested, and hunted the thing down out of the heights?"

"No, they were taken unawares," Saelon replied.  "Are these stealthy or cunning creatures?  What went amiss in Srathen Brethil, when you had so much foreknowledge and experience?"

Their look told her that she had not turned the topic skillfully enough, but Elrohir answered her question.  "No, they are not stealthy, nor are they particularly cunning.  A dozen of us went to Srathen Brethil, and baited them from their tarn with cattle, down to the throat of the corrie, where there was better cover for us to await them.  They are hard for Men to spot in the dark, for their hide is dull and dun-colored—"

"Yes," Saelon murmured, remembering that taloned hand.  "The corbies could not tear it."

"—but we could see them well enough.  The largest came first, wary, as if it mistrusted so much meat at its door.  They have hunted the land bare for near ten leagues around, we understand.  It slew both of the stirks, and took half of one to the tarn; a short time later, it returned, with another the size of a troll and two a little larger than a Man.  They are all fearsomely strong.  Once they were busy feeding, we tried arrows to see what they could do, but they do not pierce their hide, not even on the small ones."

Saelon suddenly realized that Dírmaen was sitting near the door, although she did not know when he had slipped in.  Rain was falling in torrents outside.

"Of course, they fled, but most of us were waiting for them.  Arathorn got the first spear in the sire, before Dornadan and I came to his aid.  Halgorn spitted one of the smaller ones, but they take a lot of killing, and your men had said that you must keep them beyond arm's reach."

"Halpan pursued the other large one," Elladan told her.  "He does not lack bravery."

"He regretted that he was not in Srathen Brethil with his brother and mine," Saelon said quietly.  "Tarain told me it was haunting him."

"That is why Arathorn allowed him to accompany us, I think," Elladan continued.  "He pursued, but it eluded him—they are more agile than one expects in something so troll-like—and doubled back to attack those around the sire.  That is how Arathorn was slain . . . and I fear Halpan has taken the blame to himself."

Saelon pressed her knuckles to her mouth.  "That would be like him," she agreed, and gave a great sigh.  How was that wound to be healed?

"Those near enough came to their aid, wounding the thing, but it shook us off and plunged into the tarn before we could finish it.  The other small one fled into the hills and was lost in the night.  Halgorn set out after it in the morning, but before he left, he advised that Halpan bring us to you, so we could see your people safely across the Lhûn."  Elladan gazed at her steadily.  "We thought it was understood that if Srathen Brethil could not be cleared, you would come east."

Thunder grumbled, the storm moving inland.  East.  "That was certainly Râdbaran's understanding," Saelon allowed.  "He came here with it, and was adroit at turning talk from any other.  Yes, there are some among us who ardently wish to join their kin across the Lhûn.  Others, however, have no friends there; and our husbandmen will be hard to move until after harvest, with so good a crop in the field.  Unless," she acknowledged, "the storm has spoilt it."

"Do you suppose we would wish that?"  Elladan's voice was soft; soft like a bad step in a bog.  There was no telling how far down you might go.

She studied the two of them, and wondered if it was their Elvish poise that made her want to bite.  Her head told her they mourned their friend and were weary from their travails, but she could see no sign of it.  "No.  Though I have heard it suggested that Râdbaran brought us no corn so we would be more willing to go where we were bid."

"You believe the Chieftain and Rangers would treat you so?"

"We have little experience of either, having always dwelt on the wrong side of the Lhûn.  What I have heard and seen for myself," she told them bluntly, "has not inspired confidence in their care."

"Yet you fostered your nephew with Râdbaran?" Elrohir challenged.

"Discontented I may be," Saelon answered, sharper than might have been wise, "but I hope I am no fool.  The Dúnedain value their own kin—provided they are not childless women.  The people who held by my brother until his death, however, are not Dúnedain.  Merely faithful.  What assurance am I supposed to give them?"

"What assurance can you give them here?"

"The security of the sea."

Elladan's gaze came near the intensity of Falathar's.  "We have heard that you put great faith in the sea."

From whom?  Halpan?  "If nothing else, it has fed us."

"That may be," Elrohir said, "but this land does not belong to you."

"No.  It does not," she agreed.  "So, we are to be driven?  If not by _raugs_ or by hunger, by Elves?"  It was impossible to keep bitterness from her voice.

"What did you expect?" Elrohir demanded, seeming baffled by the mingled agreement and reproach.

"Expect?" she echoed.  Was it really so much, one bay on this long shore?  A chance of peace, for the few years of their short lives?  "This last year has taught me to expect only grief and despair.  What I might have hoped for, I can no longer imagine."

"That you and your people are distressed, I do not doubt," Elladan replied shortly, "but if you think your state is dire, you mistake."

"Your pardon," Dírmaen put in, quiet as ever, "but if not for the Lady's knowledge of the sea and her friendship with the Dwarves, I expect their state would be dire indeed."

Saelon turned her head to stare; she had forgotten the Rangers were there.

"Friendship?" Elrohir questioned.

"You have not seen the hall they delved for them."

"Dwarves do not delve for friendship," Elladan declared, frowning; first at Dírmaen, and then at her.  "No matter how warm their will, they must be paid."

They were staring at her: thin, shabby linen, barefoot . . . she must look like a beggar, save for the gold in her hair.  She remembered how mean, how unworthy she had felt in Veylin's grand hall.  "Who would be so mad," she fleered, "as to hope for friendship from Dwarves?"

"It is not to be had for hoping."  Elladan spoke with grave authority.  "If one earns it, however, it can be beyond price.  You said one Dwarf was saved, Lady?"

"Yes.  They delved the hall to repay the service."  She said nothing of gratitude.  Pitiless; they were as pitiless as Lindon's coastwarden.

He was still frowning.  "Even if it is a small hall, that seems over-generous for a single Dwarf."

Yet Veylin had asked if she would have had more from him.  What did these two know of generosity?  "Dwarves say little; houseless folk ask less, when the gales of winter are upon them."

"Beside a Dwarven hall," Elladan told her, "six Rangers might seem a trifle, though they are not.  Your kin have also been generous, Lady, though the open-handedness of strangers may have made it seem otherwise.  The Dúnedain are poor, while there is no knowing the wealth of Dwarves.  As for assurance, we cannot speak for Argonui, but we have known all your Chieftains well, and though they have not always been able to do as well by their people as they would wish, they have always done the best they could.  Even for those who are not Dúnedain."  He gazed on her, and his frown returned.  "What would you have us do?  We came to aid you.  Lindon is not our land—we will not drive you.  Will you come east with us, or shall we leave you here to whatever fate may find you?"

Saelon set her head in her hands.  There was, no doubt, much truth in what he said, yet she could not set aside the sea.  For her part, she would stay and dare fate; but few if any of her people shared her faith, and there was too much anger already.  "Let me call my people to council, so we can discuss what they wish," she asked.  "They are divided, I know; deeply.  I will not deny any who wish to leave, but if most desire to go east, it would be folly for a few to remain."

If they all went, she must go too, to keep them on the road and see them well-settled; Halladan would have expected no less.  And if she went, how was she to return?  She could not imagine dwelling alone in the hall, small though it might be.  It would be a place of resentful ghosts, the echoes from empty corners whispering and muttering in the dark.  Where, oh where, was she ever to find some peace again?

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Notes

**Arathorn's death** : Tolkien put the dagger symbol of an untimely death before Arathorn's death date, but neglected to tell us how he died.  Do not mourn overmuch: he was old for a Chieftain, and I have supposed he went to Srathen Brethil himself in part because he would have preferred to go down fighting.

**Brambleberries** (also blackberries, _Rubus fruticosus_ ): a prickly-caned relative of the rose, bearing berries in August and September.

**Stirks** : young cattle, one to two years old.  These were probably bullocks or steers: castrated males.  See **Cattle** in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1) for details.

**Sire** : a male parent, applied to animals.


	8. Sound and Fury

_The daughter of debate, that eke discord did sow._

\--Elizabeth I

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Sitting unregarded in the corner, Dírmaen watched a sodden and muddy Gaernath make his way to Saelon's side, bending to whisper in her ear when she looked up, her face set like one hiding anger or pain.  Whatever he said, she gave the boy one of her lean smiles and squeezed his arm as if in thanks before turning back to Partalan, who stood beside her with a fine old helm in his hands.  Gaernath had been here when Halpan arrived with his burden of ill news.  Where had he been since?

Wherever he had gone, his message did not lighten Saelon's dour expression.

There was no time to try and speak to him now.  The council was about to start, and Dírmaen was not certain of his welcome.  After the simple supper of fish and gardenstuff, Saelon had politely asked Elrond's sons to leave, and Meagvir had accompanied them.  The children, save for babes at breast, were also banished, bedded down in the big cave under the care of Handin and Gormal.  The little ones had been troubled enough, Saelon insisted; they did not need to see their elders shouting at each other.  Having become acquainted with these folk and their griefs, real and imagined, over the last two months, Dírmaen thought it would likely come to that.

Saelon took the helm from Partalan, tucking it into the crook of one arm, and stepped up onto a bench before what served as a high table.  Looking out over the near three dozen people clumped loosely by families, she waited for them to be silent . . . but finally fixed her hawk's glare on Sorcha, who let her muttering to Eapag trail insolently away rather than be seen as daunted.  "I have gathered you all here," Saelon said simply, "so we can decide what we wish to do."

"We are to leave," Urwen declared dismissively.  "The sons of Elrond have said so.  You would gainsay Elven lords?" she challenged, voice tart with scorn.

"Yes, if they are ill-advised.  Wise they may be, but they are not our Chieftain, neither Arathorn nor Argonui.  They do not know us, or this country—and little more of the _raugs_ than Aniel, here."  She looked to her cousin.  "Is that not true, Halpan?"

"It is true," he allowed reluctantly.  He did not stand with his brother's wife and his sister, but near the door, distancing himself from both Saelon and Urwen.  Left to himself, Dírmaen suspected he would have found a dark, lonely place to hide in his guilty shame.  "Still, they were the Chieftain's brothers-in-arms, and have more experience in slaying fell things than any Man."

"That did not save the Chieftain, or clear the _raugs_ from Srathen Brethil," Saelon replied, with no mercy for Halpan's flayed feelings.  "My brother—" she hitched the helm up a little "—charged me to look after you all, and I have done the best I can.  I have fed you, and housed you, and tried to settle your quarrels.  Many of you have long wanted to be gone, to kin across the Lune or back to your homes, waiting here for the peril of the _raugs_ to pass.  But that peril remains, and now that the Chieftain has been slain in Srathen Brethil, there is little hope of returning thither.

"That is why the lords Elladan and Elrohir have come.  They are willing to escort those who desire to seek a new life in the east.  Who," she asked, "is prepared to go?  Now, without corn?  Some of you have kin who will welcome you; many do not, and they could well face another lean winter, dependent on the kindness of strangers for roof and bread.  Therefore I would know your thought: how many wish to stay, and how many to go?"

Gazing at them solemnly, she declared, "You all know where my heart lies.  This place has been my home for a score of years, and I do not wish to leave it.  Yet I must be with you, if I am to fulfill Halladan's charge to keep you for Halmir.  So, if more of you would leave than stay, I will go likewise.  On a matter so grave, all who would should speak—Dúnedain or cottar, freeman or servant.  Urwen, I know you have much to say.  Begin!"

"Who has not heard what I have to say?" Urwen asked, resentment and contempt compounded.  "Not that any give heed.  How much longer will you delude yourselves?  This land belongs to the Elves, and they wish us gone.  Srathen Brethil is cursed, a place of death.  There is no returning thither."  There was shuffling among them; Dírmaen had heard the uneasy whispers rumoring the woman's foresight.  "The realm of Men is across the Lune.  How many more must die before you recognize it?  If we had gone home with Râdbaran, the Chieftain would not be dead.  The Chieftain!" she cried, and her voice grew shrill and wild.  "All because of your timid folly!  Who save Saelon could wish to live here, eating cold, slimy things from the sea that drowned us of old?  The desolate end of the world, far from kin and friends!  Why do you delay?  Pack your goods and let us flee from this place as quickly as we may!"

"Nay," Maelchon disagreed, his deep voice pitched to soothe.  "Not so hasty.  Are we to leave the finest crop of bere I have ever seen to rot in the field?  Of course you wish to seek your kin; a widow, with five children, must seek succor.  Count yourself fortunate that you have kin who will welcome you.  I do not.  At least," he grinned wryly, "not so near and dear that they would welcome my great brood on their threshold.  And why should they, when I can provide for them here?  Weed from the sea is indifferent fare, 'tis true, but in a month we will have bread and ale to our heart's content.

"All this talk of _raugs_ or fiends or whatever they are is above me," he admitted.  "I am a husbandman.  Crops and beasts are what I know, and if you give me good fields and good pasture, I will burden no man.  My fathers all kept our land in freehold, but now it is lost to me.  Where am I to get more?  This," he gestured vaguely towards the lea outside, "is fine land: the soil is sweet and light, the weather mild with ample rain.  Just look at the bere in that field!  How can a man walk away from that, for whatever fag-end of stony clay he might get by becoming a bondsman?  Or the back-breaking labor of clearing an assart?  Elvish land this may be—it is fair enough in its own way, though I thought they liked trees—but I do not see them dwelling here.  If they are not using it, surely they would be glad to take land-rent from those who would?"

"Who can tell with such uncanny folk?" Mais grumbled.  Dírmaen craned his neck to look past those standing between him and the young freeman, trying to see whether his posture was arrogant or sullen.  Mais swung between one and the other as frequently as the wind veered, depending on the tempers of his womenfolk: the timid, doe-eyed young wife; the red-headed sister, warm-blooded as such women were said to be; and the pretty, conniving widow of his father, hardly older than the other two.  Sullen, it seemed.

"Come," Maelchon replied, trying to put heart into the young man, "can they be stranger than the Dwarves?  They have proved good neighbors."  He gazed pointedly around the hall.

"We have not seen them since spring.  All they care about is the crop, and their share of it."

Maelchon laughed.  "And future crops as well.  You have never traded with them, that is clear.  Their work may be dear, but most give full value.  Do you think one of Arain's coulters would have cut the turf so easily?  With such soil and dwarf-made tools, we could be very comfortable here in a few years' time.  The Dwarves will trade for whatever produce we do not need."

"Unless the Elves take it all for land-rent," Mais pointed out.

"Maybes and might bes.  If you insist on worrying, remember this: if we leave before harvest, we will cheat the Dwarves of their fee.  They do not often hand over goods without payment.  It was a kindness," Maelchon recognized, "but if you want to see the harshness they are known for, turn your back on them.  Where do you mean to live, that they will not find you?  Their trade takes them across Eriador and beyond, and they all seem akin."

That made Mais pause.  "Then let us make over the whole crop to them, as it stands.  That will more than repay them."

"Dwarves reap?" Maelchon scoffed.  "Have you ever heard of such a thing?  As soon expect Elves to plough!  No," he declared, stolidly as an ox planting his feet, "me and mine will stay, at least until after the harvest.  If we must go, then let us ask the Elves for leave to stay until the beginning of spring, so we need carry little more than our seedcorn."

There was more debate about the crop and its fate as the cottars weighed in, encouraged by Saelon's nod.  Their labor, too, had gone into it.  Finean was of Maelchon's mind.  The greybeard Airil grumbled at length about the inconvenience and tiresomeness of all this stravaiging about, while his grandson fretted about the risks of the move to his wife and infant son.  Mais countered that his wife missed the mother's care and advice she should expect for her first babe, and that they wished to seek for Eapag's kin among those who had fled east from Srathen Brethil.

Dírmaen settled back against the wall as the speculation about whose kin had gone where and how much aid they might expect from them, given their past kindnesses to them—or lack thereof—began to grow heated.

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One of his pony's hooves slipped as Veylin urged it up the muddy track, but the sure-footed beast caught itself with a snort and kept climbing.  When it heaved them onto the level cliff-shelf, however, Saelon's dooryard was deserted.

Save for three tall men who had just stepped out of her old cave, two of them alike as castings from the same mold, keen-eyed as Elves but their breadth of shoulder revealing the alloy of Man.  The third, a Dúnadan grizzled as a badger, gaped at him as the last rays of the setting sun behind his right shoulder flashed off his fire opals and topazes, and set his gold and amber aglow.

The two did not gape, but stepped forward while the others rode up behind him, bowing with their hands at their breasts.  "Elladan—"

"Elrohir—"

"—at your service.  We are the sons of Elrond," Elladan added, as if there could be cause for doubt.

"Veylin, Vali's son, at yours and your family's," he replied, bowing over his mount's neck.  "I am a chieftain of the Firebeards."  Hearing who had come—no mere Men of the Star—he had delayed long enough to dress as befit his consequence, but now he wondered if that had been a misjudgment.  Where were Saelon and her people?

"Our father," Elladan told him, "is a friend of the Longbeards."

That was almost gracious; a welcome surprise.  "And you, one hears, are the bane of our foes the Orcs.  Not that we left many behind us after Azanulbizar."

"Our hunting was poor for many years afterwards," Elrohir agreed, "but their numbers are increasing again.  Were you in the host at Azanulbizar?"

That bitter, bitter day.  "Aye.  Rekk, Ekki's son, here, as well."

They both bowed to Rekk, who returned the courtesy, eyes narrowed.  It was not often that Elves knew the proper names, still less used them, yet these were the sons of one ancient ally of the Longbeards and the grandsons of another.  At least they ought to get a hearing.

"The Lady Saelon is a friend of yours, we hear."

"Yes," Veylin acknowledged.  "Where is she?"

"In their hall, holding closed council with her people."

Good; she would need to be sure of their support to defy these two.  In the meantime, it had bought them time to get here, and would give him a chance to hold his own council with the sons of Elrond.  "Have you come to remove them across the Lune?"

"That was our intent," Elladan allowed.  "They are debating whether they should all go."

"They have the choice?"

The three of them looked at the seven mounted Dwarves.  Veylin wondered if helms and hauberks might have been better than gold and gems.  That was fine mail the Elves were wearing; Longbeard work, no doubt.  "Of course," Elrohir assured him, with a shade of a smile.  "Will you come into this cave and wait with us, until their council is finished?  We would like to hear your part in the matter of the _raugs_.  You have heard that the Chieftain of the Dúnedain was slain in Srathen Brethil?"

"Ill news," Veylin said.  "Such always travels fast."  There was no point in denying it.  Their timely arrival would reveal much to two so wise as their father's sons must be: the nearness of his halls, that some here knew where to find him at need.

That they had felt there was need.  Saelon would have told him a foray against the fiends was planned—if she had known of it.  Again, this neglect of her and her folk, in a matter that touched them so near.  Him and his as well.  "Yes, we will wait with you.  And speak of the fiends."

Dismounting, he put as dignified a face on his lameness as he could.  Rekk, Vitr and Vitnir, and Thyrnir followed him to Saelon's cave; Oski and Ingi took charge of the ponies.  Within, they completed the introductions as Meagvir offered around a little flower wine.  As Veylin cautiously sipped it—poor, thin stuff, but inoffensive—Elrohir said, "We have heard that you were attacked by one of these fell creatures that infest Srathen Brethil."

"I was, with my companions, who did not survive: Rekk's brother, who was Thyrnir's father; and one of my following, whose father also greatly desires vengeance."

"We regret that your folk were not with us in Srathen Brethil," Elladan said.  His sincerity was not surprising, given what had befallen.  "Arathorn told us that no one knew where to find your halls, this side of the mountains."

"Word sent to Sulûnduban would have found us.  Or even here."  Veylin set the cup aside.

"Lady Saelon knows where to find you."  It was not a question.

"She, too, has lost a brother to these fiends, and other kin.  We have made a pact between us, against them."

"Why did she not tell us?" Meagvir asked, looking baffled.

Veylin stared at him from under lowered brows.  "Did you take her into your counsel?"

The sons of Elrond had turned their keen eyes on the Man.  "Râdbaran told her he wished to speak with you."

"If you have been here since Nórui," Veylin chuffed, "you must know that simply telling Saelon what you wish does not ensure her compliance."  Were these Men fools, dealing with her so?

"Why would we seek her counsel on the _raugs_?" Meagvir protested.  "She has never seen one.  She knows nothing of the hunt, or of arms."  As Dwarves and Elves gazed fixedly on him, he concluded, as if it explained all, "She is a woman."

"Is she the leader of these folk," Rekk demanded, irritated as the talk strayed from the fiends, "or is she not?  You expect her to bear the burden but will not grant her authority?"

"You do not understand," Meagvir said shortly.  He might as well have added, _because you have no womenfolk_.

"No, I do not," Rekk rumbled.  "But I begin to see why she turned her back on you all."

"What do you mean?" Elrohir asked, as if he would damp what might become a quarrel.

"Do you know nothing of her?" Veylin replied brusquely, growing impatient himself.  "She has dwelt here for a score of years, for the sake of the sea—and because her folk did not know how to value her.  Not until they needed her shrewdness and mettle to preserve them.  Some scorn her still, after all she had done for them!  I marvel at her forbearance."

"A Dwarf's idea of forbearance—" Elladan gave them a dry smile "—is different from that of other folk.  She has a bitter, reproachful tongue."

"That it can be sharp, I know," he granted.  "Though not without cause.  If her temper is spoilt, blame the puling of these feeble folk and the condescension of Rangers."  Veylin met Meagvir's glare willingly.  "Even the best iron can only bear so much hammering, without quenching.  And you propose to take her from the sea?"

Elladan set his hands together and regarded Veylin fixedly over them.  "That is twice that you," he emphasized, "have made much of her liking for the sea.  I find that strange."

"That Dwarves would speak of the sea?"

"That Dwarves would be so near the sea," the other commented, cocking an eyebrow.

Rekk snorted, but held his tongue when Veylin turned a fierce scowl on him.  They were not here to talk about their doings; these two were not of Lindon.  "We may have little liking for it," Veylin told them curtly, "but even a Dwarf can see it speaks to her."

Well they might look thoughtful, if tales of their ancestry were true.  It was the Man who shook his head.  "Sea-mad, some of her folk say.  Besotted, at any rate."

A brisk rap on the doorframe, and Oski thrust aside the drape, firmly pushing a boy into the chamber before him.  "Your pardon," Oski said with a short bow, "but this child's brother has gone missing.  We have helped him search along the cliff, and cannot find him."

It was the older of the two Dúnedain boys under his hand, and his look of worried distress was growing as he stared at them.  "Hanadan?" Veylin asked.  "The rascal has probably slipped into the hall."

"I . . . I do not think so, Master Veylin," Handin managed to contradict him, and turned his anxious gaze towards the sons of Elrond.  "He said he would not go east with us."

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Arguments about kinship past, Dírmaen had found, were indissolubly wed to strong feelings about future relations.  This discussion was swiftly approaching the point where insult was inevitable.

"Where is my sister to find a husband?" Mais wanted to know.  "Or my brothers wives?"

It was not that there were not enough men or women, even of suitable age, but of their kind.

The greybeard, with the fearlessness of age, demanded, "What is wrong with the lads and lasses here?  We know your sister doesn't object to a landless man—" a dig at her trysts with the absent Tarain "—and she could have her pick among the youngsters, since Bereth is too high for them.  Or is it that Bereth has spurned Deonaid in her turn?"

Dírmaen considered Mais's second brother with surprise.  He would not have thought the boy bold enough to try for one of the Dúnedain, but he was flushed as red as his hair and Bereth looked like a furious cat, so it must be true.

"Presumptuous ploughboys."  Urwen looked on them with aloof scorn.  "Mais plays the lordling here, in the absence of his betters; Deonaid thinks to turn our distress to his advantage; and Gaernath would be Saelon's protector.  Stay here if you cherish such ambitions.  You would be lucky to remain freemen across the Lune, even if you succeeded in finding your kin, faithless folk who abandoned their lord."

Gràinne chortled.  "It's not his sister's pride that breaks his peace, no, but that chit of his father's, who misses sitting soft and easy by the fire, with maidservants to do her bidding.  There are no men here who will keep her so, and she wishes a wider hunting ground."

"Let her go," Canand, Mais's drover, spoke up, "and seek her fortune elsewhere.  There is fine pasture here, and you can rebuild our fortunes if you stay, as Maelchon says.  She is no kin of yours."

An old and trusted servant of the family had spoken against Lis before all.  Mais did not chastise him, only looked more sullen and irresolute, and no one else took her part.  Saelon looked down on her with something that might have been pity.

"Yes, let her go with Urwen and the other soft-handed women," Fransag said, with a contempt as great as Urwen's.  "We have no fat old men here for her to pet and please."

Murdag smirked.  "That is harsh, Fransag.  She doesn't like their age and fatness, but their wealth."

Tearlag gave a coarse laugh.  "Perhaps she should try a Dwarf, then.  She was always petting Gede's beard, but the Dwarves have nicer ones."

"If you think so, you cuddle them!" Lis spat.  "Testy runts.  A man I want, aye, one to protect me from slander such as this!"  It should have been hard not to pity the young widow, scorned by high and low alike, without so much as a babe to bond her to these people.  Yet Lis had in some measure earned this with her own barbs of malice, attempting to endear herself to folk by scathing whomsoever displeased them.  As with, "But only Saelon is cold enough to turn to sea and stone."

Amid a collective gasp and murmur—awe at her insolence, a kind of anticipation for what might follow—Saelon stepped down from the bench and handed her brother's helm to a livid Partalan, staying him with a gesture.  Walking up to pretty little woman, she fixed her with that falcon glare and said, perilously soft in the sudden hush, "I think you had best explain that last, Lis, lest people misunderstand you."

"Well, what is this?" she demanded, flinging up a hand to snatch at the gold in Saelon's dark hair.  "Your lover's favor, or the chain that locked your mouth after they dishonored you?"

Saelon struck, an openhanded blow that drove Lis back against Deonaid.  "Do you fear," she asked, fierce, caustically curious, "that you will poison yourself if you do not spit out such venom?"

A child's gasp beside him, where no one should be—Dírmaen tore his eyes from the two women and saw Handin in the doorway, wide-eyed.  Reaching up, the Ranger dragged the boy down beside him.  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.  There was no need to keep his voice low.  Mais had, belatedly, leapt to Lis's defense, only to collide with Partalan, who growled a warning Dírmaen could not hear over the rising hubbub.

"Hanadan has run away," Handin replied miserably.  "We cannot find him."

"Run away?  Are you sure?"  That child was impossible: fearless, into everything.  "Have you and Gormal looked everywhere?"

Saelon had climbed back up onto the bench, and was calling for peace, but she might as well have stood on her rock and cried out to the sea in storm.  Aniel had joined Partalan, facing Mais and Deonaid and Bred, baying like one of his deep-throated hounds, Gaernath at his side.  Halpan was shouldering his way through the crowd towards them.  Urwen stood at her chamber door, laughing.  Staring at her distastefully, Fransag had gathered Rian up with Gràinne and was shooing them towards her own chamber.

"The Dwarves have helped look, and Meagvir and the Elven lords, too.  They told me to tell everyone."

"Dwarves?"  Dírmaen looked from Saelon to the mud-splattered Gaernath.  Halpan had thrust himself between the boy and his brothers; accusations of disloyalty were flying.

"Veylin's people have come," Handin said matter-of-factly.  "My brother likes the Dwarves, but Ingi says they haven't seen him.  If he had been near," he murmured, "he would have gone to them."

If the child liked them, he would have.  If the sons of Elrond could not find him on this narrow shelf, he was astray in the dark . . . and even if _raugs_ did not come so near the sea, it was still perilous for a seven-year-old to be abroad alone in the night.  Clasping Handin's shoulder, Dírmaen drew him up as he stood, and, pitching his voice as if for battle, thundered, "SILENCE!"

He got it.  Every head turned towards him, stunned into brief stillness.  "Hanadan has run away," he told them sternly.  "We must get up a hunt."

"How long ago?" Saelon demanded: pragmatic as always, wasting no time on doubt or denial.

A piercing wail near-split their ears—Urwen, staring with wide, horrified eyes, threw up her hands and collapsed like a stricken doe, keening as if her child's dead body lay before her.  Now they all stood petrified with dread, looking on the hysterical woman is if she was an omen.

If the rumors were true, she might be.

Urwen continued her wordless wail of loss, knocking her head against the stone floor as she rocked.  Saelon threw a wild look at Bereth, who was shrinking away, hands pressed to her mouth; then at Eithel, who had started crying in counterpoint to her mother.  When no one else dared, Saelon stepped forward.  "Urwen," she murmured, kneeling down beside the crumpled woman and laying a hand tentatively on her shoulder, "sshh, do not give way like this.  Most likely he has just—"

"Get away from me!" Urwen shrieked, uncoiling like a lunging adder and backhanding Saelon hard enough to fling her away.  "You did this!  You taught him to love the sea!  More than his mother!"  And she began to keen again, rocking back and forth, her gaze blind.

One of the sons of Elrond—there was the other beside him; when had they come in?—slipped through the stupefied crowd, offering a hand to Saelon, who was clutching her face and eyeing Urwen with bleak dismay.  Having set her on her feet, he cautiously approached the grief-stricken woman.

Someone short and glittering like frozen firelight pushed between Dírmaen and the other son of Elrond, heading for Saelon.  Everyone suddenly found they had something more interesting than Urwen to look at.

"Saelon," the Dwarf said gruffly, looking up at her, "are you hurt?"

Dírmaen had never seen a Dwarf so richly dressed: his broad golden belt was set with gems like shards of flame, and there were more on the chain around his neck, bright against his fox-colored hair and beard.  Saelon herself was staring.  "No," she said, fingering her jaw.  "She is not Rekk."

And there was Rekk, whom Dírmaen had last seen in Srathen Brethil, wearing not a hauberk but what now seemed a modest belt of gold.  "I should say not," he sniffed, but he was grinning.  "If you must be dauntless, Lady," he told Saelon, "you will have to learn to be more guarded."

"Hanadan has run away?" she asked the dwarf-lord.

"So his brother says, and he is not on the cliff-shelf.  Where would he have gone?"  He sounded as if he knew the child and was concerned. . . and why not?  The child was an endearing scamp, and Handin said he liked the Dwarves.

"Hanadan?"  Saelon shook her head: weary, distracted.  "There is no telling.  Aniel, might your hounds be of use?"

"They are not trained to track boy," the huntsman said, almost apologetically, "but they will do better than us in the dark.  Let Teig and I take them along the river to the moor, and we'll see if we can flush him from the coverts."

"I once saw him at the base of the other cliff, exploring the small caves there," a third Dwarf told her, one with a beard as fiery red as Gaernath's hair.  How many had come to her summons?  "We can make quicker work of them than your folk."

"Thank you, Thyrnir," Saelon sighed.  "Though you all look too splendid for such work."

"Dwarves too splendid for caves?" the begemmed one snorted, glowering at her.  "Have these folk finally sent your wits entirely astray?"

"If not, it is not for lack of trying.  Partalan and," she looked at those who had gathered around, "Halpan, will you search the machair and northern headland?"

"Of course."  Halpan's guilt-ridden diffidence seemed forgotten.

"Shall Dírmaen and I take the clifftop and tower headland?" Meagvir offered.

"Please," she said.

"How may I help, Lady?" Elladan—or Elrohir—asked.

She considered him for a moment.  "However you think best, lord.  You know your own skill."  Taking a deep breath, which shook a little, she added, heartfelt, "Thank you."

As he bowed his head, Gaernath asked plaintively, "Is there nothing I can do?"

"Yes," Saelon told him, laying a hand on his shoulder.  "You can come down to the shore with me."

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Notes

**Freehold** : a hereditary right to land; a free man would pay some kind of rent or tribute to their lord (paying for the protection of specialist warriors), but would not have to perform labor services—their time was their own.

**"soil is sweet"** : a "sweet" soil is one whose pH is a little basic, rather than acidic (or "sour"), usually on calcium-rich substrates like limestone.  It is easier for most plants to take up nutrients when the soil is not acidic, and therefore they tend to grow better on sweet soils.  Most British highland soils are highly acidic, formed on glacial till (more descriptively known as boulder clay); but West Highland machair soils are aeolian (windblown) sands, often with a significant proportion of tiny shell fragments, which keeps them sweet.  When manured with seaweed, these soils could be highly productive.

**Assart** : a clearing in a forest, specifically one cleared for new farmland.

**Coulter** : an [iron blade set on the front of a plow](http://www.cpat.org.uk/educate/leaflets/food/plo-01a.gif); it cuts the soil vertically, while the plowshare cuts it horizontally and turns it to make the furrow.  Here, where they were "sod-busting," a good, sharp coulter would have saved a lot of sweat on the part of man and beast . . . and allowed them to plough more land with the same effort.

**Topaz** : traditionally, any yellow or golden-brown gemstone.

**Amber** : fossilized pine resin, yellow-orange to brown in color; easily carved, with electrostatic properties.

**Chieftain of the Firebeards** : Veylin is what a Man would call a dwarf-lord, but among Dwarves authority is based on patrilineal kinship and seniority (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285).  Since Gaelic _clann_ literally means "children," Dwarves truly are clannish.  In Highland usage, a chief was often considered the head of the whole name or clan, while chieftains led one branch.  Veylin is the head of a collateral branch of the Firebeards, off the "royal" line.

**Azanulbizar** : the Khuzdul or Dwarvish name of Dimrill Dale, where the great and terrible battle that ended the War of Dwarves and Orcs was fought in 2799.

**"one ancient ally of the Longbeards and . . . another"** : The "History of Galadriel and Celeborn" in _Unfinished Tales_ provides some details of the relations between Elrond, Galadriel, and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm in the Second Age.  When Sauron persuaded Celebrimbor to rebel against Galadriel and Celeborn in Eregion, Galadriel and her children (but not Celeborn) fled to Lórinand (later Lórien) through Khazad-dûm.  Some centuries later (S.A. 1697), enraged by the loss of the Three, Sauron sent his army against Elrond, whose forces would have been overwhelmed if Durin had not sent Dwarves, accompanied by Elves of Lórinand, to attack Sauron's host in the rear.  "Ever afterwards Moria had Sauron's hate, and all Orcs were commanded to harry Dwarves whenever they might."

It was not for mere kindness that Elrond's folk mended Thorin and Company's clothes and hopes, and Elrond helped decipher their map.  Not only could Galadriel speak Khuzdul place-names well enough to enchant Gimli (for it was not the sight of her that kindled his admiration), but it should be remembered that her brother Finrod is the only Elf widely known by a Khuzdul name: Felagund, from _felak-gundu_ , "cave-hewer."  Since Dwarves of Belegost delved Menegroth, and Finrod had Thingol's assistance in the planning of Nargothrond, one suspects that Belegost masons worked for Finrod as well.  Is Veylin heir to the gemsmiths who made the Nauglamír?

**Quenching** : iron and steel become brittle when forged, as the crystals fracture; to toughen the metal, you have to anneal or temper it—reheat it at a lower temperature to partially melt the crystals and then cool it (quenching) so they reform.  This is where the art of ironsmithing comes in: the temperature (judged by the color of the hot metal) and how quickly the metal cools (varied by using different liquids, usually water- or oil-based) determines which forms of iron crystals you get, and therefore the quality of the metal.

**"their ancestry"** : Ulmo himself appeared to their great-grandfather Tuor and sent him to Gondolin.

**Stravaig** : Scots, to roam or wander aimlessly.

**Drover** : a cattleherd.

**Adder** ( _Viperus berus_ ): a mildly venomous snake found in Britain, including the Scottish Highlands.

**Coverts** : in this sense, a thicket providing cover to game.


	9. --You Can See the Stars

_Not till the fire is dying in the grate,_  
_Look we for any kinship with the stars._  
_Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,_  
_And the great price we pay for it full worth;  
_ _We have it only when we are half earth._

\--George Meredith, "Modern Love"

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"Lady."  A sonorous, woodwind voice, reedy against the profound bass of the sea.  "Saelon."

Turning her head to consider the tall shape in the starlight, she saw it was one of the sons of Elrond, standing calf-deep in the surf beside her rock.  She hoped he had taken off his handsome boots; the salt would ruin them.  "You ought to take some thought for yourself," he continued, gentle reproach.

"I am," she assured him, and turned back to the sea.

The back of his hand—a healer's touch—against her cheek, checking for chill.

"So," she murmured, "you, too, think me crazed."

The hand withdrew.  "No," he said.  "I am not sure what to think."

If he did not, then perhaps mere mortals, including herself, could be excused confusion.  When he showed no inclination to leave, she sighed and brought her thoughts back.  "Do you bring word of Hanadan?"

"No.  The search continues."

Saelon glanced at the sky.  Most of the night was gone; she had sent Gaernath back to the hall long ago.  "Has something else gone amiss, that no one else can cope with?"

"No."

She turned to frown at him.  "Then why are you here?"

It was odd, how clearly she could see him in the glimmer of the stars.  "Concern for you," he replied.  "Is that so strange?"

"Yes.

He gazed at her steadily while several waves came in, softly slapping the rock.  "Lady," he took something from his belt and offered it to her, " _Dwarves_ speak on your behalf."

The starlight picked out silver fittings: a flask.  She wondered what it held, then decided it did not much matter.  Wine, mead . . . if he would not leave her to the peace of the sea, let him ease her cares some other way.  "Now that," she replied, taking the flask, "is strange.  Or so it seems, if tales are true."  Dwarves, but not her own folk—her own kind.  She had heard how Lis explained it; she would not be the only one who thought it.  Just the one with the gall to say it to her face.  "What am I to make of it?"

"Have you known them long?"

"Until last Ivanneth I had never spoken to one."  Had it been so short a time?  "Can you tell me," she asked, "is Veylin a lord?"

"You might call him so.  He is a chieftain, the head of a sept of the Firebeards.  You did not know?"

Saelon shook her head.  There seemed to be no end to what she did not know about Veylin.  "He seemed . . . distinguished, but I knew not how to judge.  I have never seen him as he appeared tonight."  If he had been bedecked with gold and jewels when he lay on the moor, would she have dared to touch him?

A corner jutted out from the rock on that side; he perched on it, drawing his feet from the water.  No boots.  "And he did not say."  He sounded almost amused.  "That is the nature of Dwarves, Lady.  They are as close with their confidences as they are with their gold."

"Well, he has shown his hand now."  She met his gaze.  If he would avoid speaking of Lindon, she would not bring it up.  "And for what?"

"He told us that the two of you have allied against the _raugs_."

That; always something put off their chance of revenge.  She took a draught from the flask, and found it only water.  "Do I command such strength of men?"  Who had stood for her?  Partalan; Gaernath; Aniel . . . and Halpan, but he would return to the Rangers.  A grizzled old swordsman, a huntsman with a mere handful of trained hounds, and an eager-hearted lad.

"I confess that I do not see how what you have can be turned to advantage against such foes," he said candidly.  "Yet the Dwarves, who know you and your folk better than I, clearly think there is some value in you."

"What?"

"Ask them, if you think they will answer!  Ore often looks unpromising, yet they profit much.  Do not frown at me—I mean no disrespect, either to your folk or the Dwarves.  Our family is friendly to the Longbeards, from the days when they dwelt in Moria, then Khazad-dûm.  Dwarves are never disinterested, but do not believe the tales that say they are naught but stone.  They are as staunch as friends as they are inimical as foes."

"So I am learning."  Saelon passed back the flask.  "Which brother are you?"

"Elrohir."

"Thank you."

He was about to reply, only to turn suddenly, facing the sandhills.  She saw nothing but their dark curves against the star-speckled sky, but the relieved release of his breath changed her stab of fear to hope.  A strange, top-heavy shape crested the ridge, and carefully trod the soft slope to the shore; a tall, rangy hound loped after.

Aniel, carrying Hanadan.  He halted when he saw she was not alone on her rock, then came on to the edge of the water.  "He refuses to go to his mother," Aniel told her, cross and weary.

"Oh, Hanadan," Saelon sighed, angry and pitying together.  Climbing down into the shallow surf, she went to them and reached out to take the child.  "Why did you worry us all so?  Why did you run away?"

He flung his arms around her neck and hid his face against her shoulder; she could feel the dampness of his tears.  "I don't want to go away.  _Nana_ scares me."

She stroked his twig-snarled hair.  "I know, honey.  I know.  I will see to him," she assured Aniel.  "Will you be sure the others are called in before you go to your bed?"

"Yes, Lady."  With a stiff nod to Elrohir, he trudged back across the strand, calling his dog to heel from where it nosed among the wrack.

Shifting Hanadan's not inconsiderable weight—he did not loathe seaweed and winkles—Saelon explained, "Your _nana_ is frightened, too.  That's why she acts this way.  But here is Lord Elrohir, and he will take you where you can both be safe and there is plenty of bread and milk and honeycakes, and then it will be as it was before."

"Don't want bread," he muttered, snuffling.  He turned his head to stare mistrustfully at Elrohir.  "Don't like Elves any more."

"Why not?"

He thrust his face back against her shoulder and mumbled something she could not hear.

"Hanadan . . . .  Don't you know Elrohir is a kinsman of ours?  A—" she floundered, unable to tell how many generations separated them without telling over the lists "—an eleventy-first cousin."

The child glanced up at her, scowling suspiciously.  "Eleventy-first?"

"Not so distant as that," Elrohir corrected mildly.  "Do you see many Elves here, Lady?"

"I have seen a few, from afar, over the years," she replied, "but since the others came, only Círdan's coastwarden Falathar and his crew.  Gaerveldis, he called me, but we had just sown the bere, and the tilling of the machair displeased him."  She did not want the sons of Elrond to think they were hostile to Elves, because of a child's words.  Or her own, spoken in bitterness.  "And the dwarf-delved hall."

"Yes," he mused, "that might bring back ill memories."

"Of what?" she asked.  "Do you know him?"

Elrohir gave her an odd, sad smile.  "He sailed with my grandfather."  And looked up to where Eärendil shone high in the west.

His grandfather.  It was one thing to know it, as a thing in a tale; another to hear it said so matter-of-factly.  She had asked Veylin about the ruined tower, seeking a touch of the Elder Days . . . and it had been—was—on this shore with her, living and breathing.

"I can imagine," Elrohir went on, after a few more waves had lapped the shore, "that you might have found him daunting.  But Círdan would not have sent him to overawe you."

"I never thought so," Saelon replied.  "He spoke ill of the Dwarves, however, and his parting words were . . . disturbing."  She gazed out over the sea, trying to recall exactly what he had said as she hitched the drowsing child back up in her arms.

The Mariner's grandson slipped from the rock without a splash and came to her.  "Let me take him."  As she hesitated, with a furtive glance to see if Hanadan was awake enough to object, he added, "I do not think you should be the one to return him to his mother."

"I suppose not."  Passing the child to him, she trailed behind as they climbed to the machair and lingered to look over the bere, silver-grey rather than gold under the stars, rippling gently in the breeze like a placid sea.  It had taken no hurt from the afternoon's storm.  So much trouble for so simple a thing: a field of tall grass, heavy with seed.  Except for the whisper of the breeze, all was silent.  Glancing up at the stars again, she judged it was only a few hours until dawn.  They would not be setting out on the road this coming day, after such a broken night.  One more day's reprieve.

As she came up the track, she caught the scent of pipe-weed smoke and there, by the boulder at the turning, the glint of star on stone, where no stone should be.  "Have you made your peace with the son of Elrond," Veylin asked from the dark, "whichever one that was?"

Saelon could not help but smile.  "Elrohir."  Except for that fugitive glint, his gems were hidden by the night.  "I suppose so.  Not that we were at war."

He gave an amused snort.  "They seemed to think you had handled them roughly."

"I was in a foul mood when they arrived.  Such an appalling day," she murmured, scrubbing at her face, trying to wipe away some of the weariness that was finally settling on her, the weightier for being deferred.

There was the tap of his pipe against stone, and he rose, crushing the embers underfoot.  "Then I should not lengthen it by keeping you here."  As they climbed the track, he said gravely, "I have heard—"

Her breath caught.

"—that you will go east if most of your folk do."

Yes; that, too, he might mislike.  "So I said.  If more choose to go than stay."

A less amused noise.  "And how did they divide?"

"We had not come to the point where that was clear."

"How do you think it will go?"

It seemed almost an age ago.  With an effort, she considered where folk had stood before passion swept all reason away.  "Urwen will not be stayed this time.  Mais and his kin—" Lis must go; would they feel the need to accompany her?  Mais had stepped forward to defend her . . . .  "—except for Gaernath, yes, I think they will go too.  Maelchon likes the land and wishes to stay.  Certainly until after the harvest; Vitr and Vitnir must be paid.  The cottars . . . they are less willing to risk another move, but after what was said . . . ."  She sighed.  "It will be a near thing."

"I do not understand," Veylin muttered, "why you would chain yourself to those who least regard you."

"I would have something to surrender to Halmir when he comes of age."  Yet he had a point.  How could she lead those who hated her?

Dissatisfied, he said, "You have made up your mind on this."

"I should go back on my word?"  Trapped: by Halladan's dying trust, by her own sense of honor.

A lamp had been left at the head of the track.  Veylin stooped to pick it up, and the light roused his jewels to sullen flame.  They faced each other in the heavy silence.

"Thank you," she said.  "For all your trouble."  If she left, would she ever see him again?

Veylin shrugged.  "I have a fondness for the child."

That was not what she had meant.  "And that, too."  She gazed on him.  "You look very splendid."

His eyebrows shot up.  "Are you trying to humor me, Lady?" he rumbled.

She gave him a reproachful look.  "Why do you wear such things, except to be admired?"

"I wished the sons of Elrond to take me seriously," he insisted indignantly.

"Did they?"

The corner of his mouth quirked.  "I have not seen Elves so polite in long years."  Yet it was a passing gleam, and he grew dour again.  "Though it seems it was for naught."

"No," she assured him, reflecting on her conversation with Elrohir.  How much of his regard sprang from Veylin's?  "Not for naught."

That earned her a speculative look; but if he left much unsaid, he also left questions unasked.  "I am glad to hear it," he said, though he sounded no gladder than she felt.  "It is easy to doubt the effect of one's own work."

"Your work?"  Saelon stared again at the fiery glitter of his belt and the chain around his neck.

Pride warred with other feelings above the beard that hid so much of his face.  Self-reproach at the indiscretion?  Wariness of her tender pride?  "Much of it."

She wished it was day, so she might see it better, though perhaps it was more beautiful by night, its fire uncontested by the sun.  "I have often wondered what your craft was," she confessed.

"You never asked."

Was that the reason for his reticence, or merely an observation?  She could not tell, and it did not matter.  She did not desire another quarrel in this rancorous day, nor, spent as she was, did she have the strength for one.  "Would you have told me if I had?"

When Veylin finally spoke, he did not answer her question.  "My heart is given to gems," he murmured, voice deep and low, "as yours is to the sea.  Good night, Saelon; the scrap that is left of it."  Then he limped off to the old byre-cave, leaving her there in the dark, fearing that was a parting gift.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

When Saelon finally woke, she was unsure of the time.  It was always difficult to tell under stone, when the light came from lamps or the hearth instead of the sky, but usually sound gave clues: the deep silence of the night, relieved only by snores and the crying of babes; the bustle of the day, enlivened by the clatter of cooking or chat or the scamper of the little ones.

Outside of her chamber it was quiet, but not night-quiet.  There was an inarticulate murmur of women's voices from Mais's chamber; snatches of a cradle-song from Maelchon's.  Nothing from Urwen's, or the hall itself.

She knew she should rise and see how matters stood, but she could not muster the will to leave the cool darkness of her bed.  She did not want to face people, after the ugliness of the evening before.  She did not want to watch them all pack their slender goods, or think about packing hers.  Twenty years' worth—so much would have to be left.  So much.

Steps outside, pausing to open the door; a lamp in the chamber, enough light to find its way past the drapes of her box-bed.  Steeling herself, Saelon pushed the coarse linen aside.  If she could not face her niece, she was pitiable indeed.

"Good morning," Rian said, setting the lamp on the kist.  "It is a fine day outside."  Taking off her shawl, she began folding it.

Perhaps that explained the unnatural peace: everyone was outside, avoiding each other.  "Is it still morning?"

Rian smiled, as if pleased to catch her lying in so late.  "For a while longer."

Gazing around the chamber, Saelon acknowledged, "It was kind of you to put off your packing, so I could sleep."

The lass stared at her.  "You think I am going?"

"You're not?"

"Oh," Rian cried, slinging the shawl onto her heather bed, "do you think you are the only one who cares about duty, because you are the only one brave enough to stand up to Elven lords?  How could I leave you here, kinless?"

"I thought . . . Eithel . . . your brother—"

"Yet you should give up the sea?"

"Please," Saelon begged, head in her hands, "do not you argue with me, too.  Do we even know if I am staying?"

"Of course!"  Rian came over and sat down on the edge of the bed.  "You cannot mean to leave for _them_ ," she declared, flipping a disdainful hand towards Mais's chamber.

"It will depend on the count, lass.  I gave them my word."

"Why?"

"They are your brother's only inheritance, now," Saelon told her bleakly, "save a sword and a helm and a horse.  Your dowry, too.  They are not mine to cast aside."

"Then send them to Halmir.  _I_ don't want them," Rian assured her.  "And Sorcha would be happy if she were with Tarain again."

"If only it were so simple, and lovers need never be parted."  After the words were spoken, she would have recalled their sour severity; it was not the lass's fault she was at the age where love mattered more than the practicalities of life.  Had she not been foolish—worse than foolish!—herself, when only a little older?  "There is something in that, though," she allowed, in hopes of making amends.  "Perhaps the sons of Elrond might take them to Râdbaran."  Would it be such an imposition?  Although why they should grant any favor she might ask . . . .

"That would please Sorcha."  Rian looked surprised that her aunt would take heed of her thought.  "And you can stay here to watch over the rest of us, without fretting about them.  Much," she added, daring a smile.

She patted her niece's hand.  "We will hope so."

Rian studied her, sobering.  She was a perceptive lass; when she had more experience of life, she might be as keen a reader of hearts as her grandmother had been.  "Do you love Veylin?" she asked, with the callow candor of youth.

Like a half-trained hound, she had found scent, but gone off on the fresher, rawer spoor, wrong though it was.  Still, that her own kin should give any credence to such lies . . . .  "He is dear to me, but not in the way Lis insinuated."  Saelon would not sully her mouth by speaking of the other slur, the vicious slander she had struck the woman for.  "Since your father died, he is the only one who speaks frankly with me—who upbraids me kindly," she explained.  "He and your father only met the once, over spearpoints, in fact—" she shook her head at the memory: spears mustered for her honor; they seemed doomed to misunderstanding "—but they agreed very well.  They might have been friends, I think," she murmured, eyes welling, "if he had not been slain."

Leaning over, Rian kissed her cheek.  "He would not have wanted you to leave the sea."

Then why had she and Halladan spent a score of years sparring over just that?  "I wish he had not died in a vain defense of our lands.  Life is full of grievous partings."  Clasping Rian's hand to show she was grateful for her kind words, she sighed.  "Now let me up, lass, or people will think I have crawled in here to die of shame."

Only after Rian had flitted out again did Saelon discover the water-stoup and pail empty.  Gritty with the fine sand of the shore and the salt of the sea and her own sweat, knowing how poor an appearance she had made yesterday before their exalted guests, she wished to be more seemly today.  Taking up the pail, she stepped out into the hall—and halted, shocked.

The fire was dead; the hearth cold, and stripped of everything that was not fixed to the stone.  The hall itself was bare, save for the trestles and boards and benches, and the lamp that cast its light over the starkness.  The homely bundles of the cottars' meager belongings, usually tucked under the sparse furnishings for the day, were gone.

She had thought, with so many up half the night looking for Hanadan, that they would not leave today.  Were they already gone?  No—Rian would have said.  Bewildered, she stared at the two doors on the other side of the hearth, behind which there was some sound of life.  She could hear Lis in the one chamber, her voice high and shrill.  Yet . . . had Maelchon and Fransag changed their minds, after all that had fell out last night?  Fransag's great cauldron, and the griddle of contention, were not in their places.

Going to their chamber door, Saelon tapped on the oak.  "Fransag?"

Two breaths of suspense before it opened, revealing Muirne, little Ailig in the crook of her arm.  "Come in, Lady," she bid her with a smile, stepping aside.

"What is this?" Saelon exclaimed, coming to a halt barely far enough in for Muirne to close the door again behind her.

"We are dragons, guarding our hoard," Fransag told her from the bench, where she sat nursing Malmin, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight with an almost dwarven resentment.  "That pert vixen will 'borrow' no more from us."  All the common equipage, including the greasy black spits and hooks, and the cottar's bundles had been shoved into the already crowded chamber.  Saelon recognized Aniel's cloak and Unagh's blanket.  "If you are going out, bring us your kists, and we will look after them, too.  I know Lis covets that pretty silver cup of yours," the goodwife rumbled.

Saelon looked from the disorderly heaps of trenchers and bowls to Muirne.  "Your family is staying?" she asked.  "And Finean's?  And your servants?" to Fransag.

"Except Sitheag and her whelp," Maelchon's wife sniffed.  "Good riddance."

Muirne, who had settled onto one of the heather beds, laid Ailig in the nest of her lap.  "Of course, Lady.  How could we be so ungrateful as to leave you, when you gave up riches to house us?"

It took a moment to realize what she meant.  How would Veylin have repaid her, if not with the hall?  Yet—Rian and Partalan and Gaernath; all of Maelchon's house save Sitheag and her babe; all of the cottars . . . that was more than half, whether you counted the children or not.  "What would I have done with gold and jewels?" Saelon wanted to know.  "The people of Srathen Brethil have always been the wealth of our house.  That is why I am so loathe to lose any of you!"

"Come," Fransag said, brusquely hearty, "you are a better mistress than that, Saelon.  The bad apples must go, if you are not to lose the whole barrel."

"If I am so good a housewife," Saelon retorted with a wry laugh, showing her the dry pail, "why must I come beg water of you, so I am fit to be seen by our guests?"

"Rian ought to have seen to that."  Fransag cocked her head.  "Does she stay, or will she go with Urwen?"

"She says she will stay."

"I am glad her mother did not spoil her entirely, trying to match Urwen's airs.  Help yourself to the water!"  Fransag waved her hand towards the full pails set on the end of the bench.

"Where is everyone else?" Saelon asked, as she lifted the nearest pail.  "Your mother is not with you?"

That brought a smile to the goodwife's face.  "She has gone down to the machair, to see the fun."

"Fun?"  What could bring merriment, as what was left of Srathen Brethil tore itself apart?  At least they could not be making sport of Lis.

"They are dividing up the stock.  Do not hurry yourself on that account," Fransag reassured her, seeing the alarm on her face.  "Gaernath has charge of yours.  He kept them for you last year, did he not?  My man will make sure his brothers do not bully him."

For once, everything seemed to be in hand without her lifting hers.  Taking leave of them, Saelon returned to her chamber, glad to have time alone to sort out her thoughts, which were as choppy as a cross-cutting sea.  She would not have to go; not yet.  Though how could she be glad, when so many were leaving?  Very nearly half: poor lordship indeed.  Yet with all the griefs and trials they had suffered, was that so discreditable?  Rian was staying.  There was still the matter of Lindon.  They would not trouble to divide the beasts unless some were staying.  Enough were staying.  She was staying.

She was staying.  She clung to that, and waited to see how the rest would settle.  The better of her linen gowns, bleached pale with many dryings and threadbare, but it was too hot for the good woolen gown Urwen had given her.  Her brogues, searched out from the bottom of the kist; it would feel strange to wear them in summer, but she would look a little less like a beggar-woman.  Re-plaiting her hair, she was about to weave in the gold chain when she stopped and stared at it.

If she did not go, there were the Dwarves.  And what her people might think lay between her and them.

At first she had worn the chain to rebuke Rekk, if the bruises on her face had not been enough to shame him.  She had continued to wear it because it was a fair thing, something that called the Dwarves to mind after they had left, though it had been Veylin she wished to remember.  Somewhere along the way, it had become the mark of her lordship, the one bright thing that set her drab person apart from the poorest among them.

Looking at it now, with Lis's words still curdled in her mind, she found it had lost its glamour.  Or was it that it now seemed a poor, plain thing beside Veylin's splendour?

In the end she wove it into her hair to show her disregard for Lis's fling.  But it was a near thing, and her heart remained stubbornly heavy.  She did not even care if Lis pawed over her things while she was out; if she took the cup, that would be one less thing to burden her.

Going out to refill Fransag's pail and her own at the spring-fed basin by her old cave, she found the dooryard as deserted as the hall . . . save for the two tall and two short figures seated companionably on the stones along the edge of the cliff-shelf, their dark and ruddy heads bent towards the machair with absorbed interest.  "It has always been a wonder to me," one of the sons of Elrond was saying, "that more of them are not injured, handling beasts as they do."

"It was not the one with the flaming hair, was it?" Veylin asked.

Leaving the pails, Saelon hastened over, even as the other twin replied, "No, one of his brothers."  Glancing back over his shoulder, he assured her, "Do not fear, Lady.  He is embarrassed, not hurt."

She was stepping up onto the rock, behind Thyrnir, when he twisted around to meet her eye and said, with what was surely a smirk, "The crook-horned ram is yours, Saelon, is he not?"

Veylin laughed.  He still wore his chain and belt of gold and fire, and they were even more dazzling in the bright sun than by lamplight.  "Better and better!"

Shading her eyes, Saelon looked for herself.  Yes, there was Roid, with Bred clouting him good-naturedly on the shoulder, and Finean dragging her ram off by the horns.  Most of the folk down there—and it looked to be nearly everyone—were laughing as well.  The women and older children stood near the edge of the field, to turn the beasts from the standing crop should they bolt that way, while the crouched collie glared at the flock that did not want to be divided.

"It is amusing now," the twin on the right admitted, smiling, "but it will be less so as we travel.  It will take near a fortnight to reach the Emyn Uial with so many young children in the party, even if all are horsed, but if we must go at a ewe's pace, we will be a month on the way!"

The other looked between Saelon and the Dwarves.  "Can not some arrangement be made, so the beasts remain here?"

"But the beasts are all the wealth they have," Saelon told them, "especially since they are leaving before harvest.  You would have them arrive in the Emyn Uial as beggars, dependent on the kindness of strangers for milk and meat as well as bread?"

"No," the twin on the left persisted, "yet wealth can take less troublesome forms."  He cocked a brow at Veylin.  "I do not suppose you would be interested in purchasing their animals?  They could get both meat and corn for coin, and it does not require pasturage."

Veylin snorted.  "Do I look like a herdsman?"

How many head did Urwen and Mais have between them?  Two score of kine, one of sheep?  What would they come to, in silver or gold?

"The ponies are vexing enough," Thyrnir maintained.

Or gold.  Saelon's hand went to the chain in her hair.  And Fransag said Lis coveted her silver cup.

"Surely those of the Lady's folk who remain—"

"Perhaps we can come to an arrangement," Saelon cut in.  "If I can relieve you of the stock," she asked the sons of Elrond, "would you be willing to do me two favors in return?"

Veylin and Thyrnir were staring at her, puzzled; the Elven lords looked guarded.  "What would those favors be?" the one on the right asked.

"That you bring Mais and his family to Râdbaran, so they remain in the service of my brother's son."

They looked at each other.  "That is hardly worth the asking, Lady," the one on the left told her.  "We do not see any trouble there."

"The other will make up for that," she warned them.  "I wish Hanadan to remain here, at Habad-e-Mindon.  At least one male of our line ought to grow up among his people."

"That is outside our right to grant, Lady.  You will have to speak to . . . ."  He trailed off.

"Should I really speak to his mother?" Saelon asked, raising an eyebrow.  Under the keenness of their concerted regard, she prodded, "Am I wrong to expect my kin to honor their oaths to these people?  The fostering of a seven-year-old boy—who does not wish to leave this place—is too much to ask?"

"What would you have us do, Lady?" the other said quietly.

"Speak on my behalf, as a kinsman would.  I would ask Halpan to do so, but he has earned Urwen's resentment for insisting they all stay in his stead at Midsummer."

"We will have to consider this."

"Of course."

When they had withdrawn, Veylin considered her with narrowed eyes.  "And what wealth can you give them in return for their beasts?"

She drew the gold from her hair and let it lay in the palm of her hand.

"That is too much," Thyrnir told her.

"Not if it takes Mais to Halmir . . . and keeps Hanadan here."

Veylin slowly smiled, though his eyes did not change.  "I can see we will have to keep our wits about us, when we come to trade for beef and butter."

"And whose fault is that?" she asked him, with a smile of her own.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**"—You Can See The Stars"** : This is the second half of the quote that supplied the title for Ch. 6.

Charles Beard's "Lessons of History":  
 _1\. Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power.  
_ _2\. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small.  
_ _3\. The bee fertilizes the flower it robs.  
_ _4\. When it is dark enough, you can see the stars._

**Sept** : a branch of a clan.

**_Nana_** : Sindarin, "mommy."

**"Not so distant as that"** : Elladan and Elrohir are probably something like Saelon's sixty-eighth cousins.  Mannish kinship terminologies were never meant to cope with the longevity of Elves.

**Falathar** : one of the three mariners who sailed with Eärendil to Aman.  They remained on Vingilot until Eönwë, herald of Manwë, placed them in another boat, which was driven east by a great wind.  It is not said whether these mariners were Elves or Men; I have supposed Falathar was one of Círdan's folk of the Falas . . . and that having sailed West once, and been shown off, he would not have been eager to sail that way again.  If the coast of northern Lindon is anything like the coast of west Britain and Ireland, you would want a master mariner to sail it in the chancy weather of early spring.  Hopefully this explains why he was so intense and, since the Elves of the Falas were close kin to those of Doriath, his attitude towards Dwarves.

**Vixen** : a female fox.  In the medieval mind, foxes were marked by their stink and their propensity to steal poultry.

**Brogues** : from Scots Gaelic, _bròg_ , "shoe"; the traditional footwear of the Highlands.  While in the modern usage a brogue is a stout walking shoe, in the Iron Age and Medieval periods it was a [light shoe of deerskin](http://www.tartansauthority.com/assets/images/dress/Ancient/Deerskin%20shoes.jpg), often with decoratively cut openings on the upper.


	10. Harvest Home

_Come, ye thankful people, come,_  
_Raise the song of Harvest-home;_  
_All is safely gathered in,  
_ _Ere the winter storms begin._

\--Henry Alford, "Come Ye Thankful People, Come"

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Veylin laid aside the burin and turned the tablet of malachite from side to side under the lamp, studying the design cut into its alternating bright and dark layers.  "Yes?" he responded when someone cleared their throat behind him, not taking his eyes from the stone.

"A message from the White Cliffs," Arðri told him.

A little more there in the corner, to deepen the shadow; a hair's-breadth, or he would strike light again.  Taking up the burin, he delicately cut that mite more, then considered the result.

Perfect.  As the light shifted, the leaves seemed to flutter, as if in a breath of air.  Setting stone and tool down, he turned to his eldest prentice.  "They harvest?"

Arðri held up a circle of braided barley-straw: hand-broad, bright fallow gold, bristling with heads of plump grain.  "So it would seem."

"Have Vitr and Vitnir been told?"  Veylin turned back to his bench, smiling as he laid the malachite in its chamois-lined box.  The setting could wait, since he had not decided whether muted silver-grey or verdigrised copper would suit it best.  Once his cousins had taken their share of the Men's crop, perhaps he would have peace enough to decide.  How they had been fretting, since they saw its promise last month, fearing some ill chance would rob them of their payment.

"Aye.  There was more to the message: we are all bid to their harvest feast on the morrow."

"All?"  Veylin chuckled and began returning his tools to their places.  "That is hospitable, although they would not expect so many as we are.  Still, not all will wish to go."  Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, "Do you care to see the White Cliffs?  One cannot avoid the sight or sound of the sea, but the Lady brews a fine light ale and I do not doubt that we will be fed very well."  Proud as she was, Saelon would almost certainly aim to clear the shame of months of scant hospitality in one grand stroke.

"Are they not very poor?" Arðri asked dubiously.

"In everything but foodstuffs," he assured him, "which will do us no harm."  No indeed; a bit of fresh beef or mutton would be welcome, and if fortune favored, they might see it on the table more often henceforth.

That brought a smile to Arðri's face.  "I suppose not.  Are they truly friendly?" he asked.  "I have never found Men so."

"Nor I, before this," Veylin admitted.  "Yet as with all folk, there are Men, and there are Men.  Those still at the White Cliffs have been through the furnace, and are staunch folk of good will.  I have heard," he said, "Longbeards of Erebor speak with regret of the Men of Dale.  They must have been like to these."

"Much wealth came to Erebor through them, it is said."

Veylin laughed.  "I do not aim for so much, at least not in my lifetime.  I have no wish to find a dragon on my doorstep."  Taking up his cherrywood stick—the fiend-torn knee stiffened when he sat long at his work—he levered himself to his feet, leaving the shavings and slivers of malachite for Oski to tidy away.  "How far has word spread?"

"Fram is on the door, and took the token to your cousins," Arðri replied.  "Skani brought it to me."

"Then," Veylin hooked the plaited ring from his prentice's hand with the head of his stick, "I had best make the rounds, and see who wishes a holiday.  Close up here, then let Oski know.  The two of you can help my cousins capture the ponies."  Leaving Arðri to douse the lamps and lock up, Veylin stumped out into the passage and around the corner to Bersi's workshop.

His old friend had only lately come out to see why he was so mad as to dwell this side of the mountains, but one visit to the lower level Nordri and his sons had opened over the summer had been enough for him to send his son back to Sulûnduban for his equipage and prentice.  Since the door was part open, Veylin rapped with his stick.

He hardly had time to lower it before Barði swung the oaken panel wide.  "Come in," Bersi called heartily from beside his hearth, "and see what Nordri's spoil gives us.  Trust you," the Broadbeam coppersmith chuckled, "to sniff out the best ore I have seen in these parts for a century.  You are wasted on those crystals of yours."

Veylin snorted; this was their perennial argument.  He loved copper for its ruddy warmth, but it did not engross him.  "Where is the challenge in something so malleable?"

"In the alloying, of course.  Take the chest to my chamber," Bersi told Barði, nudging the strongly banded box with his boot, and tossed Veylin an ingot.  He appraised the weighty, hand-sized bar of gleaming metal while his friend's son hefted the load and left.  When the door had shut behind him, Bersi shook his head.  "You fox," he murmured, grinning.  "I knew you must be onto something good.  Especially when you came back here after that," he gestured at Veylin's bad leg.

"So you are willing to stay a while?"

"How long?"

"As long as it is worth our while."

"What of the Elves?" Bersi rumbled.

"I have heard no complaints.  Though," he admitted, smiling, "I have not been to the Havens recently.  It is not Círdan that concerns me.  A chest or two of these—" he pitched the ingot back "—for his ships should balance any disagreement over borders.  It is the remaining Noldor smiths, especially Gwinnor, that I would hide from."

"Hm."  Bersi's narrowed gaze said, more clearly than any words, that he knew there was more than copper here.  The Noldor would not trouble themselves for copper.  "And what of the Men we hear of, led by a woman?"

Veylin held up the circle of barley straw.  "Our neighbors have just invited us to their harvest feast.  Vitr and Vitnir go to collect payment for past work.  Come meet them and their Lady, and judge for yourself."

"You are friendly with this Lady?"

Such tact, from so old a friend, was in itself a kind of warning.  Much of his behavior must seem strange to his folk; it would not do to be seen as too eccentric.  He ought to spend most of the winter, when little could be done at the opal dykes, back home, reassuring kith and kin . . . and finding buyers for his own harvest.  The wine-dark garnets and bright fire opals, more golden than any grain, would unknit many brows.

"She saved my life, and my leg," Veylin said plainly, kneading the now-familiar ache.  "The things that did this took her brother from her.  We have found common cause.  And," he added, with a sly grin, not wishing to spoil his mood with brooding, "she can bring a goose to the table in a way that puts your brother to shame."

"That," Bersi declared, brows raised in challenge accepted, "is a claim that must be proved."

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

An even dozen they made as they rode to the White Cliffs.  The day was fair, the hills amethyst with heather: very like that day he had tramped down to the shore with Thekk and Vestri—had it been a whole year?—and found his treasure.

Yet this was treasure of another sort, traveling with good company in anticipation of a merry feast.  When they were not singing, those who had been there took turns telling tales of the folk at White Cliffs, to prepare the others for what they might meet.  Nordri rhapsodized on the limestone of the cliffs; with his laconic outrage, Rekk managed to turn the perilous misunderstandings of their introduction to Saelon into farce.  The dry, matter-of-fact way Thyrnir spoke of the sea nearly curled the beard with dread, so it was as well that Vitr turned the talk to music, including the beautiful harping of the otherwise churlish Partalan.  Vitnir told of the sorry state they had found the Men in at the start of the winter just past: new-come from ravaged Srathen Brethil, houseless save for a few caves too small for their numbers, and Aniel's gift of venison as Veylin and Saelon strove in generosity and pride.

Veylin laughed, as he could afford to, having won, and was giving them the story of her interest in the ruined tower and lore as they came down the track by the broad stream.  He was interrupted by a hail from the thickets.

"Good day!"  It was two of the younger womenfolk with laden baskets.  The taller, a goodly brooch of silver and enamel at her breast, was Saelon's niece.  "Welcome, masters," she greeted them, giving a bob of a curtsey.  "We are glad you can join us for our harvest feast.  Ride on, and you will find my aunt by foot of the track.  Forgive us for not accompanying you—" she hoisted her basket, laughing "—but there will be no berry pie if we do!"

"Well met!" Veylin returned cheerfully, with enough of a bow for form's sake.  "We will leave you to your work, then, since supper depends on it."

As they went on, Rekk scanned the rising cliffs and surrounding thickets with leisurely suspicion.  "Is there reason to be wary?" Grani asked.  He rode between Rekk and Thyrnir, who had just become his prentice.

"I doubt it," Rekk replied, "but I feel eyes on us.  It might be no more than the children, although I do not know how many of those are left.  The Dúnedain boys were the worst," he grumbled, not unapprovingly, "playing at ambushes, but they will have gone with their mother."

"Unless Hanadan ran away again," Vitnir chuckled.  "It is hard to say which are madder: the Dúnedain who will not stay here, or those who will not go!"

"They are all as mad as hawks," Rekk rumbled, craning to look up at the cliff.  "There is one, perched there!  Did you know he was to stay?"

"Who?" Veylin asked, gazing towards the narrow beginning of the cliff-shelf.  The black beat of Craec's wings against the pale stone drew his attention, and he saw the raven lighting beside a dark-haired Man.

"Dírmaen," Rekk answered, raising his hand in reply to the Man's brief wave of greeting.  "He is one of the Men of the Star who scouted Srathen Brethil.  And he was in the hall when they held their council."

"Was he?"  Veylin lifted a hand as well.  "I do not remember seeing him there."  Had the Man remained as a concerned kinsman, or been set as a watch upon Saelon and her people?

"Some of those Men of the Star are near as bad as Elves that way," Barði observed, as they came out onto the plain between the cliffs and the sea.  "So much stealth cannot be honest."

Honest or not, one was less troublesome than a half-dozen.  Or the heirs of Rivendell.  "If he would roost up there rather than join the feast," Veylin dismissed, "let him keep Craec company."  Before them, the field was reduced largely to stubble, studded with stout stooks of barley.  "Ai!" he roared at the Men laboring along the last edge of the crop, standing in his stirrups.  " _Khazâd ai-mênu_!"

Their heads lifted like those of startled deer, then Maelchon's booming laugh rolled back, echoing dimly off the cliffs above.  Passing the sickle to his servant Fokel, who had been binding sheaves behind him, the big black-bearded husbandman gave a sweeping wave and strode to meet them.  "Welcome, masters," he greeted them heartily.  "At your service!"

"Well met, Maelchon," Veylin answered, removing his hood and bowing.  "At yours and your family's.  Is the crop worth the troubles it has given you?"

"You know it must be good," the farmer beamed, "if, starved for corn as we have been, we feel the need of our neighbors to help eat it.  And drink it!"  He was so cheerful that Veylin wondered if the ale was already flowing.  "Come—the hearth in the hall was too small for our thanksgiving, so we have spread our board on the earth itself."  Maelchon gestured towards the foot of the track and, as Rian had said, busy womenfolk were gathered there, near the drifting smoke of a fire.  "Hai!  Artan!  Leod!  The ponies!"

Saelon left the bustle around the fire to greet them as they dismounted.  "Is this all you could muster, Veylin?" she asked, in a tone of disappointment that her smile gave lie to.  "Granted, I see some new faces, but there are others I miss."

"Am I supposed to drive my folk to your table, so you may make amends for past niggardliness?"  Was that a whole stirk over the fire?  He could not help but laugh.  "Truly, Saelon, you beggar belief."

"So long as you believe that we are grateful for your aid and counsel," she replied, offering him the cup she carried, "I will be content."  Looking past him, she added, "And you, Vitr and Vitnir.  We would not have this harvest but for your trust.  We are all at your service."

"At yours and your family's, Lady," Vitr assured her, as Veylin relieved her of the cup.  "That trust looks to be well-rewarded."

Saelon gestured one of the younger women forward—Muirne, was it?—with cups and ale.  "You will forgive us, I hope, for taking something from the crop before it was divided."

"So long as we still get our share," Vitnir chuckled, taking a brimming cup.

"Master Nordri."  Saelon dropped him a curtsey.  "The hall has served us well . . . and been admired by those who are better judges of your craft than I am.  Where are your sons?  I would thank them as well."

He swept off his hood and bowed low.  "Their work detained them, Lady, but I will tell them of your kind words.  May I present my cousin Grani, Guti's son, in their stead?"

"At your service, Lady," the carpenter greeted her, favorably impressed by her courtesy to his kinsman.

"At yours and your family's, Master Grani."  Taking a cup from Muirne, Saelon offered it to Rekk.  "Master Rekk."

"You are not wearing my gold, Lady," he observed.  Was he displeased?  Even Veylin was unsure, for what had begun as a reproach had shifted strangely.

"No," she said, sobering.  "As a token of lordship, it had ceased to serve, so I gave it in return for more practical wealth."

Rekk shrugged and took the ale.  "It was yours to do with as you would."

"Since your young kinsman's continued attendance was the condition of the trade," Thyrnir noted, "I assume you gained your point with the sons of Elrond . . . and his mother."

"His mother?"  Saelon looked bemused for a moment, then gave a clipped laugh.  "Hanadan, you mean.  Yes, he is here—somewhere."  She cast a vain glance around.  "Actually, I have kept two kinsmen.  Urwen would not foster her son to me, so Halpan remained as well.  I am surprised he was not here to greet you," a shadow fleeted across her face, "but he has his heart set on including salmon in the feast, and had no luck last night."

That young Man, hardly more than a stripling, had been deeply troubled when Veylin last saw him.  He had been on the fiend-hunt where the Chieftain of his people had found his death, and felt in some way responsible.  With the loss of his elders, he had taken as much of the burden from Saelon as he could, but had proved too tender for the load.  "The more ale for us, then," he made light of the matter.  There was a tale here, but now was not the time for it.  "Here are friends of mine, who have but lately come to our halls: Bersi and his brother Bersa, the sons of Berg; Bersi's son Barði; Arðri, Orð's son; and a follower of my cousins, Skani, son of Skaði."

"Welcome, masters," Saelon greeted them, curtseying.  "At your service."

Bersi took off his peridot-green hood and bowed.  "At yours and your family's, Lady: for your generosity in including us, as well as your preservation of my friend."

"That has been its own reward," she assured him.  "And is it not said, the more the merrier?  After the grim year we have had, this bounty is a blessing unlooked for.  Who would not share such joy?"

"Most folk," Nordri said bluntly, saluting her with his cup.  "A pity you did not have more of this when we delved your hall, or it might have been larger!"

"For this?" Bersa exclaimed.  "Oh, it is good if you like such thin stuff," he told Saelon, then turned back to the stonemason, "but if you will delve for drink, we must talk about enlarging the kitchen."

"The stone here is as light and sweet as the Lady's ale," Nordri informed him, with a sniff.  "Even you cannot brew a fair match for that dark, bitter stone."

"If your belly was not your master—" Vitnir gazed pointedly at Bersa's more than ample girth "—you could shape the kitchen as you pleased."

"But then he would not much care what the kitchens were like," Bersi said in his brother's defense.

Veylin glanced at Saelon.  She was watching them with interest, and a smile only just restrained by politeness.  "Feed them," he advised.  "It is the only way to stop their mouths, short of work or war."

"One usually feeds guests at a feast," she told him mildly, gesturing to the other women, who brought laden platters and bowls, "though not to silence them.  Is this so dire a quarrel?"

Grani had taken Bersa's part.  "No," Veylin sighed.  It could not even be called a quarrel, not in comparison to the bitter divisions that had riven her people, though it could grow tiresome.  "Yet I had thought you wearied of argument."

"You are not shrill," she reflected, then gave him a sidelong grin.  "And they are not my folk."

On the verge of jesting reproach for making light of another's misfortune, he caught Bersi's eye upon him and forbore, tasting the ale instead.  It was as good as he remembered, and so were the bannocks, served with cheeses new and aged, butter, and honey.  As he listened to Maelchon's tentative plans to double the extent of the field next season, Veylin watched Saelon move among his companions, topping up cups and horns, speaking with those unfamiliar to her as readily as to Thyrnir or Rekk.

He had forgotten how strange her forwardness was, even for a woman of Men, until he saw the stiffness of the newcomers.  If you did not know the sea-forged boldness of her heart, what could explain it, save a fool's confidence or madness?  Bersi was punctiliously polite, as if she had been a companion's maiden aunt newly introduced to him.  Arðri, with less experience of Men and the unguardedness of their women, seemed scandalized, so gruff was his manner; when Saelon had passed on, a low-voiced comment from Thyrnir made him bristle.

"Will you show us your hall, Lady?" Grani asked, as the platters were cleared away.  "My cousin has often spoken of the fineness of the stone.  Is it true that an Elf of Lindon praised it?"

"He did," Saelon assured him.

Barði cocked his head skeptically.  "Was it one of the Noldor?"

"No, Círdan's coastwarden, originally of the Falas, I am told."

Veylin eyed her.  Who could have told her that, save one of the sons of Elrond?  What had passed between them, down on the shore, that she could now speak calmly of Lindon's emissary?

Bersa snorted.  "A Sea-Elf.  What would he know of stone?"

"Felagund built their havens," Nordri declared, "so he will have seen good work."

"Let me find you another guide," Saelon offered, "so you can judge for yourselves.  I would take you, but I must attend to the division of the crop with Vitr and Vitnir."

"Do you think Maelchon needs your support, Lady?"  Vitr spoke lightly, but his brows lowered.

"Indeed, no," she laughed.  "I would learn from him, now that part of the crop is mine."

Vitnir regarded her with narrowed eyes.  "We had not heard that you had a claim on the crop."

"You should have lingered longer on your last visit," Maelchon chastened, grinning.  "Saelon bought out both Urwen and Mais."

"With the chain?"  Rekk's interest roused; he looked as if he were calculating what that might amount to.  Veylin, who had made a point of inquiring before he and Thyrnir had departed, smiled with satisfaction, seeing another part of his plans fall into place.  Some two score kine, half a hundred sheep including her own, and a less certain number of horses . . . .  She would not need so many.  Nor would the smaller number of people she led—and Maelchon had stock of his own.

"In part," she allowed, with a reserve that showed she meant to bargain.

Vitr's stare was an accusation.  _You knew this?_ he shaped in _iglishmêk_.

Veylin gave a curt finger-slash of denial.  _Her intent only.  All depended on the kinswoman that hated her.  What difference does it make?_

_Will you favor her?_

The directness of his heir's accusation shocked him, but not as much as the implied misunderstanding of his motives for aiding these folk.  "Lady," he said, giving Saelon a bow, "would you allow me to show your hall to my companions?  We should not interrupt your folk at their work, especially since it is on our behalf."  Infuriated though he was by the insinuation that he did not place his kindred's interests foremost, Veylin choked back his anger.  To have it out here, now, would offend their hosts.

And shame Saelon.  _I do not need to._   Let his cousins deal with her directly and learn her mettle.  The woman who could use the sons of Elrond to gain her will had no need of his patronage.

Though Saelon was still smiling, the sharpness of her gaze told him she had sensed the tension among them.  "Of course.  You will find Murdag there, milling, with Gràinne and the babes, but they will not trouble you, I am sure."

Bersa saw no reason to trudge up to the cliffs to see one small hall, when there was still food and drink where he sat; and, unaccountably, Rekk elected to remain as well, nursing his ale and watching Vitr, Vitnir, and Skani head into the field with Maelchon and Saelon.  The rest of them trooped up the track, silent behind his anger.

When, halfway up, he growled a curse against the fiends for his lameness, Bersi murmured, "So clear a show that she trusts you as a kinsman may not help."

No; probably not.  In his haste to find a passable excuse for stalking off, so he would not do or say something even more rash, he had not considered how this would appear.  As a kinsman?  That was the best complexion that could be put upon their freedom with each other.  How had he fallen into such unguarded familiarity?  "That she is a shrewd judge of character, I cannot help," Veylin grumbled.  And, to justify himself, "Is a just regard for our kind so common that I should spurn it, when I stumble upon it?"

Bersi glanced at his game leg, but said only, "She speaks very fair."

It was his judgment that he doubted.  Like Vitr, he thought him over-grateful.  Or worse.

"She is rarely otherwise," Thyrnir noted, the plainness of the statement pointing up his underlying meaning, "even when she is bitter."

Veylin's heart was soothed somewhat by his nephew's support.  He knew what cause Veylin had to regard Saelon so highly, and understood why cultivating her was likely to more than repay the modest efforts they had made.  But Thyrnir was notoriously fond of his mother's brother, and he was young.  What weight would his words carry?

They had reached the cliff-shelf.  "I wonder," Nordri mused, gazing up the sheer height with longing, "what she would take in return for some of this stone?  We could quarry it from the other cliff," he continued, "which would trouble them not at all.  It would make good facing, to lighten the halls and passageways at Gunduzahar."

So it would.  Perhaps as much as the timing of the older Dwarf's prosaic speculation eased the blackness of Veylin's mood.  The stonemason had no special cause to favor her, and he thought Saelon worth dealing with.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**Burin** : an [engraving tool](http://helene.perier.free.fr/peintures/Burins.gif) with a sharp pointed tip used on metal or stone.

**Malachite** : copper carbonate; a green semiprecious stone with light and dark banding, usually found near copper deposits.

**Chamois** : a soft, pliable leather; originally the hide of the goat-like antelope of the same name ( _Rupicapra rupicapra_ ), but it could be made from other hides as well.

**Verdigris** : a greenish compound formed on copper due to weathering or the application of acetic acid (vinegar).

**"been through the furnace"** : the Dwarven metaphor here is to smelting, where ore is tried and the pure metal extracted; i.e., you know what you're getting.

**Spoil** : the rock or soil removed from an excavation.  The tableland in which Veylin's halls are delved is basalt, an igneous rock frequently rich in valuable minerals, including copper.

**Broadbeams** : one of the seven kindreds of the Dwarves; like the Firebeards, their Father awoke in the northern Ered Luin (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 301).

**"for his ships"** : studding or sheathing the hull of an ocean-going ship with copper below the waterline was the only practical way (except for taking the ship out of the water on a regular basis) to deter teredos or shipworms (family Teredinidae), which would burrow into the wood and weaken it.

**Amethyst** : violet to purple-red quartz; the gem-quality stone is usually found in geodes.

**_Khazâd ai-mênu_** : "the Dwarves are upon you"; the second half of the traditional Dwarvish battle cry.

**Peridot** : [golden-green gemstone](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/cf/Olivine_%28peridot%29.jpg), a transparent variety of the mineral olivine; commonly found in basalts.

**_Iglishmêk_** : dwarven gesture-language.


	11. Drunken Oaths

_The troubles of our proud and angry dust_  
_Are from eternity, and shall not fail._  
_Bear them we can, and if we can we must.  
_ _Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale._

\--Alfred Houseman, "Last Poems"

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

When they came out of the hall, Nordri as well-pleased by his companions' praise as by the lack of faulting in the work, Veylin saw Men busy down by the larger cave . . . and a Dwarf perched on a nearby boulder, his lapis-blue hood cast back on his shoulders in the warmth of the sun.  Waving the others off towards the track and the hospitality waiting below—and giving Thyrnir, who hesitated, an emphatic glance—he strolled along the cliff-shelf to see what occupied them.

The blond stripling brothers, Artan and Leod, were spreading sheaves on a broad slab of old cliff-fall under the exacting direction of their greybeard grandsire.  Finean, wiry and hale despite the hoary grey in his brown hair and beard, was checking the leather strap on a flail.  "Do you not grow your own corn, Master?" he wondered.

The younger of Veylin's cousins finished puffing his pipe to life.  "No.  We have no gift for growing things."

"It is easy enough," Airil declared, flashing them a crooked, near-toothless grin.  "Plough, plant, and pray!"

Vitnir chuckled.  "I prefer the surety of iron, oldster."

That was civil of him, for even though the Man was ancient for one who was not Dúnedain, Vitnir must be half a century his elder.  Their objections, it seemed, were not to the Men as such, but to their Lady.  As Finean stepped over to join the younger Men, one of whom also took up a flail, Veylin drew attention to his presence by asking lightly, "What work is this, with the feast preparing below?"

"We are threshing out the ironmasters' share of the crop," Airil told him, and gave Vitnir a look of tolerant scorn.  "For some reason, they do not wish the whole of their payment."

"We do not eat straw," Vitnir answered in kind.  "Keep it, and be welcome!"

Glancing down at the plain, Veylin saw Gaernath and Maelchon's servant lading one of the Men's great work horses with sheaves.  "Surely this could wait until the morrow," he protested.  Why were his cousins in such haste to leave?  There were Maelchon and Vitr, sitting companionably with Rekk and Bersa; Saelon had rejoined the womenfolk around the fire.

Airil gave a cackling laugh.  "If we wait until tomorrow to begin, we will not be done until the following day!  Who among us will bear that noise—" he pointed at the threshers, and the dull, steady thump of their flails "—the morning after a feast?  Let the lads make a start," he declared, with the complacence of one too old for such labor, "and whet their appetites.  Even with the help of your folk, Master, it will take steady work to get through that beeve."

Reassured, Veylin snorted, not quite ready to laugh again.  "Did your womenfolk brew so much?" he asked.  "Or have you lost your heads for ale after such a long drought?  We will be helping you drink, as well as eat!"

"Oh, Saelon will not stint us," Airil assured him, licking his thin lips with anticipation.  "If we do not all wake with sore heads, it will not be her fault.  Ho, Leod!" he broke off, scowling at his younger grandson.  "Strike the grain, not the rock, or you will need to make us a new beater for that flail!"

When the old Man had moved off to correct the stripling's technique, Veylin looked up at Vitnir, resting his hands on the head of his blackthorn stick.  "Are the two of you content?" he rumbled in Khuzdul.

"How could we not be?" Vitnir replied in the same tongue.  "Such a crop—and these folk no more know how to bargain than babes.  Maelchon claims the yield was more than double his expectation, but did they use that to argue for reducing our share?  No."  Pausing to blow a contemptuous stream of smoke, he gave a curt _paff_.  "He even gave us our pick of the stooks, and the Lady stood by with a foolish smile on her naked face.  Perhaps," he mused, eyeing Veylin, "we have misunderstood your motive for succoring them."

Clearly they misunderstood many things.  Vitnir thought he meant to keep Men as Men kept sheep, to have mutton ready to hand?  "Do not," Veylin warned him, "mistake gratitude for simplicity.  These are not Shire-folk, too fat to trouble themselves over a few pennies.  They are poor, yes, but not for lack of shrewdness.  These are the ones who valued their oaths and honor more than goods.  All they have of worth is their pride, and they will spend whatever else they can come by to keep it, as you should have seen last winter."

Vitnir shrugged.  "They will not keep their pride for long, if they must continually be grateful to others for the necessities of life.  Their pride did not plough that field, nor did it house them.  You do not mean to take advantage of their vanity?"

"No, it was not pride that housed them," Veylin agreed, losing patience with his cousin's stolid short-sightedness.  Could he and Vitr not see that Men of honor and good-will would be valuable neighbors, allies in these days of growing evil, as well as partners in trade?  The Longbeards had found it so, not only in Erebor, but in the Vales of the Anduin as far back as the Second Age.  "That Saelon earned—"

"Not _their_ pride," Vitnir rumbled, in blunt correction.

For three breaths Veylin glared at him, beard bristling, jaw set so hard his teeth ached.  "Which do you and your brother grudge more," he asked, voice as cold as his heart was hot, "that I spent so much of your inheritance redeeming my life, or that you are not already enjoying the whole of it?"

Now they were both wrathful.  "We have come here," Vitnir growled, "and lost much good business, to support your whim to live hard by the sea—" he flung a hand towards the relentless, disturbing expanse of water that stretched into the uttermost west "—and you accuse us of wishing you dead?"

"Your brother accuses me of placing the concerns of Men before those of my own kin!"

"Why should you dwell here, if you are not enthralled by that sea-mad woman?"

Reaching under his beard and into his shirt, Veylin grasped the great fire opal he carried over his heart.  Snapping the gold of its chain, he thrust the matchless gem, flaming like his rage, under his cousin's nose.  "Are you such a fool as to think copper and garnets are paying for those halls?"

Vitnir gaped in astonishment, then his breath caught with desire and he reached for the jewel.

Veylin locked his hand around it, hiding it from sight, and left his fist there before his cousin's face.  "If you ever wish to see this gem again," he said, voice brittle with fury, "or any of its lesser kin, you and your brother should concern yourselves less with providing pitchforks to Breelanders and more with regaining my regard.  Your brother may become chieftain after me, if any will follow someone so like a tramping blacksmith, but my hoard is mine, and I may bestow it as I see fit."

"You would give it to Thyrnir?" Vitnir demanded, outraged.  "Take it from our sept?"

"Why should I heap treasure on a fool?  He will only do ill with it, to himself and our kin."  Turning his head away in contempt, Veylin glared along the cliff-shelf . . . and saw the four Men had left off threshing to gape at them.  With a stab of fear, he thrust the hand holding the opal into his pouch.  Had they seen the gem?  Probably not; or no more than a bright flash in the sun.  Stiffly peremptory, he turned his back on all of them, and marched back to the track as briskly as his game knee allowed.

Who was the fool now?  No one else living had seen that stone, not even Thyrnir, whom he trusted with the location of the dyke that had produced it.  And to break the chain . . . .  He would be anxious for the opal's safety until he could return to his workshop and repair it, fretting over the absence at his breast.  As he came down the track, he retied the pouch with his secret knot and hitched it around to the front of his belt, where his beard would at least partly cover it.

At least there should be less talk of him having unnatural tastes.

Bersi had wandered over to the foot of the track and met him with a cup and raised eyebrows.  "You are falling behind," he jested, passing him the ale as Gaernath led the laden horse by them.  It took Veylin a moment to remember that the fire-headed stripling meant nothing in particular by his broad grin, only joy in the harvest feast and pleasure in his company.  He feared his nod of acknowledgement was rudely curt.

When the Man was out of earshot, Bersi murmured, "Have you quarreled with Vitnir as well?"

Veylin drank deep, not yet trusting his voice.  "What makes you think so?" he asked, when he had slaked his thirst and some of his anger.

"You look so like an ancient war-mask that you may frighten the Men."

Veylin snorted in derision, but glanced over the sprawling spread of the feast to see how much disruption he had caused.  Around the fire, the womenfolk were too much taken up with their work to be troubled by a tardy guest; Saelon and Fransag seemed to be having their own difference of opinion over a basket of something.  Save for Thyrnir, all the other Dwarves were conversing with the Men, the remainder of whom had arrived in his absence: Halpan and Partalan, Aniel and his brother, the Ranger Dírmaen.  Perhaps he had not made such a spectacle of himself after all.

"My heirs," he grumbled, "would mistake gold for pyrite.  Their imagination is so limited I no longer wonder why they are content to be glorified blacksmiths."

"Kin."  Bersi rolled his eyes, then laid a hand on Veylin's shoulder.  "Come and join the feast.  The young Dúnadan and their huntsman have been asking after you."

And indeed, Halpan rose to greet him, smiling and bowing.  "Pardon me, Master Veylin, for not being here to welcome you.  You must think me a poor host!"

Returning his bow, Veylin answered, "On the contrary—I see you are much richer than when we last met.  Did you succeed in finding us a salmon?"

His drollery was not a success; the young Man's smile suddenly seemed forced.  "I am sorry, no," he apologized, with unwarranted contrition.  "You will have to content yourself with trout, I fear."

They had to content themselves with far more than trout, brought piping hot to the board as soon as they were seated.  Great platters of beef; goose and grouse; venison pie and a stew of young hares; a salad of cress and sweet herbs, boiled onions and peas, and beans flavored with bacon; and still more bannocks, with more butter and cheese and honey.  The only shortage was of board and bench, but the children and lesser Men sprawled happily on the green grass with their trenchers and bowls, their liveliness less restrained there.

Then came the sweets: stewed crabs and sloes, pies of brambleberries and cherries, and honeycakes.  Even his cousins, who had come to table stiff and smouldering, were mellowed by the excellence of the fare, and Bersa paid the cherry pie the compliment of taking a third piece.

"I am glad to see that you have found something to compensate you for the thinness of the ale," Saelon told him with a smile, as he poured a generous helping of cream on top.

"Ach, do not take that to heart, Lady," he rumbled, agreeable with content, and raised his cup to her.  "It is a pleasant enough drink, though pallid."

"Compared to dwarven ale," she agreed.

"You have tasted our ale?" Bersa asked, brows raised.

"Once," she confessed.  "I prefer your mead."

Hands folded around the smooth wood of his cup, replete, temper mended, Veylin idly wondered if circumstance was not to blame.  The ale she had tasted when tried almost beyond endurance by the desperate need of her driven folk and news of her brother's death; the mead on a fine evening in spring, accompanied by companionable counsel.

"In fact, I was thinking I might brew mead myself," she said.  "The honey is very good this year.  Finean has offered to make some larger tubs for fermenting after the harvest is finished, so perhaps next time you visit, we will be able to offer you some."

Bersa shook his head.  "Do not bother, Lady.  You will not get drinkable mead if you prepare your must in the kettles you have."

"Must?" she echoed, not knowing the word.  "Our kettles serve well enough for our ale."

"The wort for ale is made of malt; must is made of honey or grapes, and they quarrel with iron."

"Yes," Rian spoke up.  "Mother had a bronze cauldron she used to brew mead."

"Bronze would do," Bersa allowed, "but copper is best."

Saelon gazed on him with what looked, for all the world, like the slight interest of a gorged hawk.  "And where would we get such a thing?"  Yet there was something in that hooded gaze that made Veylin glance surreptitiously towards Bersi.

The coppersmith cleared his throat.  "I work copper," he said, as if admitting a weakness.

"Do you, indeed?" Saelon asked.  "Is that why you and Veylin are friends?  He seems fond of the metal."

Bersi looked at him, frowning in thought.  He had not his brother's objections to Saelon's ale.  "It was over copper that we met."

"Yes," Veylin agreed.

"You were thinking of prenticing with me."

"No," Veylin rumbled, "the bronze you gave Radsvinn had too much tin in it for our purposes, and he sent me to return it."

"And you were taken with the enameled bracers," Bersi recalled.  "Whatever happened to them?"

"Mangled in an Orc-den during the war.  I reused the metal later."  He was wearing some of it now.

_Do you mean to trade with her_ , Bersa signed, half-vexed and half-amused, _or swap drunken reminiscences?_

The look Bersi shot his brother from under beetled brows nearly brought Veylin to open laughter.  "They were not made for battle," he defended his work.  "But I am glad you thought the metal good.  If you are thinking of brewing mead," he told the patiently watching Saelon, "I happen to have some copper as good on hand, enough for one—or more—cauldrons."

"It was only a thought," she demurred.  "Still, it would be good to know what such a cauldron might cost.  Say, one as large as our great kettle."

"That will not make much mead, Lady," Bersa protested.

"How much do you think we will drink?" she wondered, smiling.

"If it is as passable as your ale," he shrugged, with a meaningful glance at his brother, "others might wish to drink it as well."

"Do you think so?  Well, half again as large, perhaps."

Bersi considered.  "Beaten or cast?"

"What is the difference?"

"Cast requires more metal and is heavier; a beaten cauldron will have joins, and may leak as it ages."

"Cast would be more?"

"Four silver pennies, against three."

Saelon choked on her ale.  "What do you take us for?" she demanded.  "Men of Gondor in the south?  I do not think I have ever seen more than ten pennies together."

"What do you have, Lady?" Bersi asked.  "Your beef is good, I know."

"Beef?"  She put up an eyebrow.  "Veal, more like, with perhaps some mutton on the side."

"Veal?" Bersa echoed with obvious relish, earning a glare from his brother, who countered with, "You might get a good beaten cauldron for that."

"I will keep that in mind," Saelon replied, leaning back.  "Thank you for making the matter clearer."

From the corner of his eye, Veylin saw Bersa signing emphatically, but he was watching his cousins pretending not to watch this exchange.  All the rest of his folk were following it with undisguised interest.  He had no doubt that Vitr had already made his opinion of the Men's trading skills known among them . . . and then there was the accusation Vitr had made against him.  Yet even if there had not been that extra spice, and the desire to judge the shrewdness of their nearest market, no Dwarf could resist the play of keen bargaining.  Was Saelon truly disengaging, or was her coolness a stratagem?

"You are welcome," the coppersmith replied, with the same tepid interest.  "If you decide to pursue your plan, let me know.  I cannot guarantee the price," he warned.  "Copper is in demand, and supplies are not what they were."

"I understand.  However, my people have had a hungry year, and I am loathe to cull our herd much just yet.  Next year, perhaps, if calving is good."

"You do not fear losing beasts over the winter?"

Saelon smiled, and only a simpleton would have thought it foolish.  "Ah, you would not know.  It is so mild here by the sea that stock does well on pasture all the year.  There is no need for a winter slaughter."

Bersi folded his arms.  "How much mutton?"

She considered.  "Two head."

"For a beaten cauldron that will hold near twenty gallons."

"Cast."

"Three head, with good woolfells."

"That may as well be four quarters of beef and the hide," Saelon objected, shaking her head.

_Fowls_ , Bersa urged.  _Honey_.

"A veal, two sheep with good woolfells, four geese, and a bushel of honey in the comb."

"Two geese and two bushels of honeycomb."

Bersi snorted and stuck out his hand.  "Clap hands on it, Lady.  Will you give part in earnest, or pay only when you see the goods?"

"Oh, I think you might have the veal now," she told him, smiling at his brother as she clasped his hand.  "It would be a poor return for Vitr and Vitnir's forbearance to insist that you wait."

Rekk nearly sputtered into his cup; Vitr and Vitnir set expressions of aloof dignity on their faces and prepared for siege.

Suspicious of her turn of liberality, Bersa asked, "How old is this veal, Lady?"

Saelon glanced around among the Men lounging on the grass, savoring their ale.  "Canand," she called, spotting the one she searched for, "I have just struck a bargain with Master Bersi.  When it pleases them, show Master Bersa the two bull-calves; they may have whichever they prefer."

"Very good, Lady," the lanky older Man replied, and nodded to Bersi and Bersa.

"Who is he?" Veylin murmured, refilling his cup.  "I have seen him, but little."

"Canand?  He was Mais's drover," she explained.  "Like Maelchon, he favors this land, and since the stock remained, so did he.  He has joined my household."

Not only a Man of property, but she kept a servant.  "This is a far cry from how we found you last harvest."  Then she had reaped alone, her only guests four unwelcome Dwarves, grim with mourning.  Ah, the ale was making him melancholy, it seemed.

"So far," she agreed with a wry shadow on her smile, "that I sometimes wonder if I am the same woman."  Looking down the board, she caught Fransag's eye.  "Pardon me, masters, but since you ate so little," she chaffed, "we must do something with all this food.  Please, help yourself to the ale," gesturing towards the stoups amid the greasy trenchers and dregs of the other dishes, "and if you desire anything more, call."

When she had left them and the other womenfolk rose to clear the board, Halpan came from where he had sat at the foot of the table with the greybeard Airil and the younger Dwarves.  "What deal has Saelon struck with you this time?" he asked, taking Rian's empty place on the bench across from Veylin and reaching out for the stoup to refill his cup.

"With me?"  Veylin shook his head.  "None at all."  Head to one side, he studied the young Dúnadan.  By rights, he ought to have sat here, beside his kinswomen; by duty, he ought to have been present to greet them when they arrived.  Something was amiss . . . yet the Man seemed light-hearted enough.  Though that might be the ale.  "Bersi, however, has seen fit to cater to his brother's love of the table by both sides of the bargain: a cauldron for Saelon, so she can brew a surfeit of mead as well as ale; and fresh meat and honey for us."

"Hmm, well," Halpan said, lowering his cup with a grin, "I can hardly object to more and better drink, can I?"

Rekk chuckled.  "Is that why you gave over the Men of the Star?" he jested.  "The prospect of better fare and drink at home?  Or were you afraid I would chastise you for leaving your kinswomen unguarded, yet again?"

As Halpan gazed blankly back, his wit suddenly astray, Maelchon came to his defense.  "His kinswomen are so divided," the big husbandman proclaimed, rolling his eyes, "that a man would be puzzled to choose between them!  The honor of being a Chieftain's man was the safest course between.  Yet," with a careful glance to be sure Saelon was well away and dropping his voice to a low, resentful rumble, "you have seen how masterful these Dúnedain women can be.  They settled the lad's fate between them without so much as a by-your-leave."

"And not even for his own sake," Aniel put in, coming up behind Halpan and laying a hand on his shoulder before dropping onto Saelon's seat.  Taking the stoup from Halpan, he topped up his horn.

"You make it sound like I am a broken-down mare taken for the sake of her foal," Halpan objected peevishly, and drank.  "Saelon had no part in it, save her desire to keep Hanadan as an assurance of the long bond between our kin and yours.  It was Urwen who bound me here, in revenge for my insistence that she and her boys," he muttered, after another deep draught, "stay earlier, for the same reason."  He raised his eyes and looked down the board to Maelchon.  "Would you be content without some heir of our line here with you?"

"It is a comfort to have you and the little lad," the black-bearded Man answered.  "Your kin have been good lords to us, and we grieve that you are now so few.  A pity," he sighed, "that Saelon never wed."

"Why was that?"  Startled, Veylin twisted to glance behind him.  He had not thought himself drunk to unwariness, but it was the soft-footed Man of the Star.

Aniel gave Dírmaen an arch look.  "Would you have a lord for wife?"

Partalan had wandered over in Aniel's wake, and stood between Halpan and the huntsman.  "Dúnedain like their women strong-willed," he said thickly, his surly gaze fixed in Veylin's direction, presumably on the Ranger behind him.  His sallow face was flushed with drink, and it was hard to tell if he meant his words as compliment or accusation.

"Yet they fear to match with them until they are twice their years!"  Airil, who had tottered up to Fransag's place so as not to miss any of the talk, gave a well-fuddled cackle and smacked his old lips with a leer.  "Or do you need such fire to heat your grim blood?"

"We have enough widows and orphans as it is," Dírmaen replied, voice coldly quelling.  "Untried youths would make more."

Halpan drained his cup and reached across the board for the stoup, face set.

Veylin flinched from the loom of the tall Man, who stretched a long arm over his shoulder to catch Halpan's hand on the wooden vessel.  "Enough," the Ranger said sternly.  "You take too much guilt to yourself.  The fell thing got past you: such things happen in battle.  At least," he added dryly, "you made no widows or orphans, neither your own nor another man's."

"No," Halpan said bleakly, "Argonui is of full age."  He relinquished the stoup, and Dírmaen promptly passed it to Bersi, who looked startled for a moment before handing it off to Bersa.  "Will he mourn his father less for that?"

"Arathorn was old, even for a Dúnadan.  He should not have gone on such a hunt, at his age, but perhaps he dreaded the creep of infirmity more than death.  Did you allow that shattered woman to chain you here because you fear the Chieftain will blame you for shortening his father's long life?"

"And my responsibilities to my kinswomen," Halpan pointed out bitterly, with a wry tip of his hand to Rekk.  "And these good folk."  A wider gesture, taking in the Men roundabout.

"Then take responsibility," Dírmaen asserted, "and for more than providing fish and game."

"What then?" Halpan demanded.  "Saelon has everything else in her hands."

Indeed; and getting it out again would require determination and perseverance.  More than this youngster had.

"There is something you can do," Rekk proposed, looking from the Ranger to the young Man beside him on the bench, "that is beyond her."

"What is that?" Halpan asked, almost scoffing.

"Slay fiends."

Veylin snorted.  How much had Rekk drunk?

As Halpan stared, mute, Partalan snorted, "Fiends.  All you Dwarves do is talk.  You told Halladan you would get him troll-spears," he accused, glaring resentfully at Veylin, "but you did not.  In the winter, you said you were waiting until spring.  When the Rangers went to Srathen Brethil, you were hiding.  You will knock a woman about and _try_ ," he sneered, "to shoot a lad in the back for vengeance, we know.  But what else have you done?  Nothing!"  He thrust his face into his drinking horn.

"And what have _you_ done?" Rekk bit back, turning to face him.  "I, at least, have been to Srathen Brethil, to scout their lair.  Have you been there since you fled?  It is foolish to fight such things without preparation—as you should know!  Standing by the tarn, amid their tracks, I told Halpan—" he set his hand on the young Dúnadan's shoulder "—we would come to plan an attack with him.  But what happened?  He left and your Chieftain attacked without us.  With what ill result you know," he growled, with something savoring of black satisfaction.

"How can you prepare for such things?" Partalan scoffed, ale dripping from his beard.  "Even the Chieftain's pet Elves could not save him, famed goblin-slayers though they are said to be.  You runts can do better?"

"Partalan!" Halpan cried, in the tone used to quell snapping hounds.  Rising, he seized the horn from the Man's hand.  "Masters, do not mind him—he is still bitter over Halladan's death, and has drunk far too much."

"Or not enough," the swordsman rumbled, eyeing them as if he would fight them all, including the Ranger.  Suspecting Saelon was the only one who could truly command him—for some unfathomable reason, she was fond of the ugly-tempered brute—Veylin glanced quickly towards the fire, but she was not there.

Bringing his legs to the other side of the bench, Rekk leaned back against the board, hands resting as if casually on his axe.  "Yes," he told Partalan bluntly, "I think we 'runts' can put you all to shame, Men and Elves."

"How?"  The Man's contempt was insufferable.

"We can drain the tarn."

"Drain the tarn?" Aniel repeated, at a loss.

"Could you?" Dírmaen mused speculatively.

This was the first Veylin had heard of it; the Dwarves were staring as dubiously as the Men.

"What would that do?" Partalan fleered.

"We can attack them by daylight, if that alone does not finish them."

Perhaps . . . .  Yet how long would the works take?  How many Dwarves laboring for how many days, in reach of the fiends?  Was this a plan that had been maturing in the waterwright's mind, or the fantastical spawn of drink and cut pride?

Rekk looked to Halpan, brows raised.  "Would you still like to wield that troll-spear?  If the sun does not do the job, some long-armed Men to pin them for us would be welcome."  Sliding his gaze to Partalan, he sniffed, "Or can you only stick pigs?"

"Talk, talk.  Bring me a spear, and show me the beasts.  Then we will judge."

"A spear for me," Aniel claimed.  "I have sworn an oath."

"Would I be welcome?" Dírmaen asked.

The corner of Rekk's mouth twitched.  "You could sneak up on them, eh, while they snooze in the sun?"

The Ranger chuffed and shook his head, but smiled: a sober Man indulging drunkards.  "If they will oblige by snoozing."

"Halpan?"

All gazed on him; he gazed into Partalan's empty horn, as if he would find courage there.  "Of course," he responded, clapping the swordsman on the shoulder and handing him back the horn.  "Climb back on when they buck you off."

A good principle; but his resolve rang ill, like a flawed blade.  A dangerous companion in battle.  "You do not sound keen," Veylin said in warning.  "Will your heart hold, when you face them again?"

"How should you question the lad?" Partalan derided him.  "You will not be facing the beasts, crippled as you are.  Not," he added, eyes hot, "that it keeps you from stumping over here to meddle with Saelon.  Perhaps it is not your leg that is lame."

"Meddle?" Veylin rumbled perilously.  The swordman's words were like a cut gem, glinting offense from every facet, with shades of more below the surface.

Bersi grasped his shoulder.  "The Man is drunk, and his heart twisted.  Leave him."

"Yes," Partalan cried.  "Give us the spears, and leave us to kill your fiends, as you give us ploughs and kettles to feed you."

Down the board, Vitr gave him a look of sour satisfaction as he rose to go.  Before following, Vitnir flashed, _There is your gratitude_.

Bersa was rising, and Maelchon, too; at the foot of the table, Thyrnir had Skani by a handful of his shirt.  Halpan shook his head in dismay and turned to walk away.  "Halpan!" Rekk called, a demand, and when the Man did not even glance his way, shot a furious, imploring glare at Veylin.  Even the Ranger, as he strode after the younger Dúnadan, spared him a look of sad disappointment.

The alliance was coming apart; how could he have expected it to hold, before it had been properly forged?  Did no one have the will to bring it to the fire save him?  "We have given you nothing," Veylin reminded them, in a harsh voice that halted all save his cousins.  "If you wish something from us, you must pay for it.  Lame I may be, but I do not need your aid to avenge my losses.  I had thought you would welcome a chance to strike a blow or two for the sake of your own dead—"  Of course they wished it, those who were warriors; even the Ranger could not resist.  "—but why should I arm someone whose heart is hot against me?  Stay, then, and eat your hearts out in impotent anger, since you cannot distinguish friend from foe.  I will go with Rekk, and such of my folk who will follow me, and we will finish these things without you."

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Notes

**Faulting** : fractures in the stone, where the change in weight and tension cause the stone to crack and shift.

**Lapis** : lapis lazuli, semiprecious stone composed primarily of lazurite, noted for its vivid blue color; the original source of the pigment ultramarine.

**Flail** : the basic preindustrial [threshing tool](http://england.prm.ox.ac.uk/image-admin/d/1325-2/1949_11_1.jpg), a short length of wood attached to a longer handle, usually by a leather strap.  The primary characteristic of domesticated grains is that the seeds do not naturally drop off the stalk and must be removed by beating or rubbing.

**Beeve** : a head of cattle.  Usually used in the plural, beeves, "beefs."  Modern English usage is to refer to a single bovine as a "cow," but this is most correctly used only for a mature female.  See **Cattle** in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1) for details.  Herders use very specific terms for their animals in regard to sex and age, since these are critical for understanding a beast's uses and value.  These people would never eat a cow until it became barren and stopped giving milk, or died from accident (or some diseases).

**"in the Vales of the Anduin as far back as the Second Age"** : in "Of Dwarves and Men" (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , pp. 295–330), Tolkien discussed how Dwarves came to adopt their use-names from an archaic language of Men of the North.  After the destruction of Angband, Orcs fled east seeking new homes, so many that even Dwarves felt the need of allies against them.  The Longbeards made alliance with Men akin to the House of Hador, whose military contribution was mounted scouts and horse-archers.  "In these ways the Alliance of Dwarves and Men in the North came early in the Second Age to command great strength, swift in attack and valiant and well-protected in defence, and there grew up in that region between Dwarves and Men respect and esteem, and sometimes warm friendship."  The Alliance came to an end when Eregion was destroyed, Moria besieged, and Orcs and evil Easterlings invaded the region (c. S.A. 1695).

**"the great fire opal"** : this is the largest and best of the stones Veylin found on his first visit to these shores, and can be seen in the rough in Dûnhebaid I: _Rock and Hawk_ , Ch. 3.

**"ancient war-mask"** : the Dwarves of Belegost "wore great masks in battle hideous to look upon" ( _The Silmarillion_ , p. 193).  The Helm of Hador/Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, which was originally the helm of Azaghâl Lord of Belegost, had such a visor "and the face of one who wore it struck fear into the hearts of all beholders" ( _Unfinished Tales_ , "Narn I Hîn Húrin," p. 75).

**Pyrite** : iron pyrite or "fool's gold," a yellowish metallic mineral frequently mistaken for gold (and sometimes associated with it).  Iron pyrite crystals were often used as strike-a-lights with flint, particularly before the Iron Age.

**"stewed crabs"** : crabapples, not the crustacean.

**Must** : the mixture of honey and water fermented to make mead, or grape juice for wine.  See **Brewing** in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1) for details.

**Wort** : the mixture of malt (ground germinated barley) and water fermented to make ale.  See **Brewing** in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1) for details.

**Silver pennies** : to give you a rough idea of the cost, Barliman Butterbur paid Merry Brandybuck 30 silver pennies in compensation for his five lost ponies.  Far off the beaten track, the folk of Srathen Brethil were more familiar with payments in kind (goods and services) than coin.  See **Coinage** in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1) for details.

**Winter slaughter** : traditionally, there was a substantial cull of livestock in the late autumn, to reduce the number of animals that would need feeding with hay over the winter when grazing was poor.

**Woolfells** : a sheepskin with the wool left on; Bersi is asking for sheep that will give quality hides as well as meat.


	12. Hard of Heart

_'Tis pride, rank pride, and haughtiness of soul;  
_ _I think the Romans call it stoicism._

\--Joseph Addison, "Cato"

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"Must you go?"

"What was your answer, when I asked you much the same question?"

Saelon frowned and sat down across from him, resting her lean hawk's face in her hand.  It was nearly as concealing as a beard by the light of the lamp, so that all he had to judge by were her eyes, green-shaded grey, as implacable as the sea.  "Do not tell me," she said, voice low, "that you carry that stick for show."

Halpan and the huntsman had taken Partalan away, not gently; the Ranger convinced Maelchon to do the same with the sodden greybeard.  Most of the Men were little disturbed, hardly having noticed the raised voices for their own merriment: some of the youngsters were dancing around a driftwood bonfire behind him, to a lively tune from the cattleherd's simple pipe.  Nordri had gone after Vitr and Vitnir; halfway down the board Rekk was speaking earnestly to Grani, Thyrnir at his side . . . supporting his nephew's petition for leave, no doubt.

Not that it could be denied.  Yet it was an awkward way to start a prenticeship.

His own prentice was huddled with Bersa and Barði in another pool of lamplight at the end of the table, drinking a little, watching much.  They were strangers here, wary of these folk.  Would they choose to return to the halls tonight?  His cousins would not leave without their grain, of that he was sure.

"Veylin."

She was angry.  Good.  Let her be the hammer; he would be the anvil.

"No," he admitted.  Laying his blackthorn on the board, he ran his hands to the ends along its gnarled length.  A stout cudgel, but no weapon for battle.  He would have to keep a spear for himself.  Haki could cap the butt as an ice-staff: a surer bite, on ground or foe.  "Yet I do not need it to stand."  He met her gaze again, knowing his was as hot as hers was cold.  "I will not retreat."

"Neither would my brother."

"With respect, Lady," Bersi told her, glancing uncertainly between them from under lowered brows, "your brother may have been a doughty Man of war, but he could not have been a match for Veylin."

Courteous without yielding: Veylin was glad to have him here.  Rekk was true-hearted, but his tongue could not be trusted.  This called for a careful touch.

Saelon said nothing, but lifted a dark, skeptical eyebrow.  No doubt she was remembering him at the point of her brother's spear.

It was a grief that he had been slain before they could join forces.  Such a fair-minded Man; he would not have allowed his swordsman to speak so of an ally.  Another vexation of having a Lady for comrade—she had no place among the warriors.  How much did her menfolk conceal from her?  "You have come to know something of Dwarves," he told her bluntly.  "Yet you still know little—and your folk less.  Do not fall into errors of supposed familiarity.  It is perilous," and his honest bitterness broke through, "to take us for granted."  Save for herself and Gaernath, these folk had known nothing from him and his but kindness.

And were not those two their staunchest friends here?  Tenderness did not breed respect.

"Have I done so?" Saelon wanted to know.

Veylin considered her quiet demand.  "No."  No; she asked for little, and expected less.  Perhaps too little, from others as well as himself.  "Partalan considers himself your dog," he declared.  "Why does he bite at me?"

Her gaze dropped to her hands, which had knotted themselves together.  "I will speak to him in the morning," she replied, no answer.  Did she not know, or would she not say?  "When he is sober.  Will you stay so long?"  It was not a plea, but dully dutiful words, steel turned to lead.  "There are heather beds and blankets in my cave, enough for you all."

This was to have been a joyful visit, her glad gesture of gratitude.  Marred, by his heirs and her guard.  Was it jealousy, on both sides?  "Of course.  Vitr and Vitnir will wait for the rest of their grain."  Taking up his stick, he rose.  "What the others will do, however, I cannot say."

"I hope," she offered, glancing to Bersi, "that they will not hold the offenses of one against all."

"We will see."

As he limped to the end of the table, Rekk and those with him rose and moved that way as well.  Arðri took one look at his face and asked, "Shall I bring the ponies?"

Veylin snorted.  "Do you think I would leave my heirs here, unsupported?" he asked his prentice.  "We may have quarreled," he allowed, "but they are my kin.  You and the others may do as you please, but I do not fear the Men.  They still owe us."

"Where is Saelon putting us for the night?" Rekk asked, as if nothing untoward had passed.

"In her cave."

"Then you had better fetch a pony," he told Arðri, with a sly glance at Bersa.  "He will not wish to climb up to the cliff, not after such a feast!"

Bersi's over-fed brother gazed along the board to where the coppersmith sat gravely considering Saelon, arms folded; then over at the Men reveling in the firelight.  "Do not hurry for my sake," he told Arðri, rising from the bench and taking his cup.  "The evening is still young.  Come, nephew," clapping Barði on the shoulder, "the drink here has run out, but I see more by the fire."

Grani drew his wine-dark hood up against the cool night-breath of the sea, eclipsing the golden gleam of his hair.  "It might be better if we retired to the cave," he said, "and left the Men to themselves."

Bersa waved his fat, ringed hand.  "Suit yourself!  I will drink your share of the ale as well, and perhaps then I will need that pony.  If we shunned Men for every slight they flung our way, we would spend half our time grubbing for dinner rather than stone.  Let them make amends for their fellow's drunken ill-will with good cheer."

"You have your shawm, do you not?" Thyrnir asked Arðri.  "Let me find my crowd, and we will join them."

Veylin turned to Rekk, denying his prentice's searching look.  Arðri could do as he pleased in this.  They all could.  By their choice, he would see how much they desired this alliance.

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A fair morning, though there were hints of rain to come in the high clouds.  Even with a late start, they should finish threshing the barley and get it safely to Gunduzahar, but it would be sloppy weather for crossing the mountains: to Sulûnduban for Oddi and gear of war, and to Srathen Brethil.

No one could be seen on the shore, and the sea looked cross-grained, a sullen and ugly grey.

Veylin turned from the sight and settled on the bench outside the small cave, drawing pipe and weed from his pouch.  There were few folk about, Dwarf or Man.  He had withdrawn to the cave soon after leaving Saelon the night before, to plan and brood; yet none of his folk had joined him until late.  Not drunk; not very drunk, made cautious by the quarrel, but nearly all more mellow-minded than when he had left them, and they still slept, snoring peaceably.

High, cheerful voices coming up the track, laughing gaily; Saelon's niece and the two raven-haired sisters, laden with pails.  Rian, keen-eyed as all the Dúnedain, spotted him.  "Good morning, Master," she called across the dooryard.  "Would you like something to break your fast?"

"I will not say no," he replied.  Though Rian's manner was no different from what it had ever been, impeccably courteous yet reticent, the other young women stared at him, their dark eyes warier than he remembered.  Word had spread, then.

"Let me see to the milk," she said, lifting her pails a little by way of excuse, "and I will bring you something."

She returned with admirable promptness, carrying a leathern jug and a trencher laden with cold beef and cheese, leftover brambleberry pie and bannocks.  "We were sorry not to see you by the fire last night."

Veylin accepted what she offered, considering her from under lowered brows.  Despite her Dúnedain poise, Rian sounded almost timid.  He was wondering if rumor had exaggerated his anger when it came to him that she was very young, perhaps no older than Gaernath.

And a woman, alone with him.  They were not all so singular or bold as Saelon.

Though the Lady was unwilling to face him, it seemed, else this tender child would not be daring his displeasure.  Placing the trencher beside him on the bench, he gave a bow of his head by way of thanks.  "It was a pleasant feast."  Glancing towards the leather drape over the door to the cave, he raised the jug.  "My folk seem well-contented."

When he had drunk and set the jug down to attend to the trencher, Rian reached up and drew her moss-green shawl closer around her shoulders, as if she were chilled.  "But you are not."

"No."  The bannocks were still hot from the griddle.

"Why not?"

That sounded more like, sharp with touched pride.  Among Men, hospitality was women's work.  Veylin looked up at her; she was already half a span taller than Saelon.  "One of your folk offered me such insult that, were it not for the regard I have for your lady, I would have had him under my axe."

"So bad?" she breathed, then, with exasperated distain, "You must not mind what Partalan says when he is drunk."

"I do not mind what the fool said," he told her, "so much as that none of your menfolk saw fit to muzzle him."

"Oh."  The girl gazed on him with dismay, mouth twisting.  "We are sadly fallen from what we were, Master, else my aunt need not lead us.  Do not blame her," she pleaded.  "She would have prevented it, if she could."

"I am sure," he acknowledged.  "Yet they are her Men."

Her grey eyes, bluer than Saelon's, searched his face, but whatever she was seeking, she did not find.  "Yes, Master," she murmured, like a chastised prentice.  "Can I get you aught else?"

"No, this will do."

When girl had left, the leather drape was pushed aside and Bersi looked out.  He watched Rian retreat towards the hall, then turned his gaze to Veylin.  "Your heart has not cooled?" he asked.

"No."

Casting his peridot-green hood over his rumpled hair, the coppersmith came out and sat down beside him on the bench, taking a pull from the jug as Veylin drew his knife to split the bannocks.  They sat in silence for a while, eating; as he divided the pie, Veylin asked, "Does your bargain with Saelon stand?"

"Yes.  It was a shrewd deal, but fair . . . and no matter what my brother says," he added, peering into the jug, "I would not mind drinking more of this."  Having done so, he asked in turn, "You will fight these fiends, lame as you are?"

"You doubt my word?" Veylin rumbled, eyes narrowing.

That earned him a reproachful look.  _That may please Vitr and his brother more than anything you have done this last year_ , Bersi signed.

_It will please them less than it might have a day ago_.  He was curious to see if they would accompany him to Srathen Brethil.  If they did not, he would leave his wealth to Thyrnir.

_Must you fight three battles at once?_

Veylin snorted, the closest he had come to a laugh since watching his friend haggle with Saelon.  "Not at once.  I hope I can maneuver better than that."  He cocked an eyebrow.  "It is my leg that is lame, not my wits."

"One wonders," Bersi muttered, with a wry smile, then stilled.  "One of the Men comes," he murmured low.

Turning to look, Veylin saw it was Aniel.  If Men had favored hoods, the huntsman's would have been in his hand: he approached with a hesitant step, head bowed.  "Morning, masters," he greeted them.

"Aniel."  Veylin gave him no more than the bare acknowledgement, eyeing him closely.  Drink did not look to be chiefly responsible for his crestfallen manner; though lowered, his eyes were clear enough.

Taking a deep breath, the Man said, "I have come to beg the favor of going with you to Srathen Brethil, Master Veylin."

From the corner of his eye, he caught the slight flick of Bersi's startled glance.  "Have you?" he rumbled.

"Aye, Master," Aniel sighed, with a rueful sketch of a smile.

He was unmoved by the guilty scapegrace charm.  Their years might be few, but these were not children.  "Why should I indulge you?" he demanded.

"Indulge?" the huntsman wondered.  "Will the trip be such a treat?"

"No, which is why I do not desire your company.  If you will not raise your voice to defend me from the slander of a drunkard, how can I trust you to raise your hand with mine against the fiends?"

Sun-darkened as his face was, his flush was still visible.  "Because I have sworn to slay the fell things."

Veylin shrugged, careless.  "What has prevented you from fulfilling your oath?"

"You know we do not have weapons that will bite on them."  Aniel seemed torn between bafflement and quickening anger.

"Ah.  So you want more from me than my company."

They locked stares; Aniel's brown eyes dropped first.  "I would be honored to bear a spear for you, Master," he said, voice low.

Relentlessly, Veylin agreed, "Yes, you would be.  What will you give me for that honor . . . and the use of the spear?"

"Give you?"  Now his puzzlement was plain.

"Did you not hear me last night?  If you want something from us, you must pay for it."

The Man's dark-stubbled jaw set.  "My service," he declared, "against the fiends."

Veylin bowed his head a little.  "That would be something," he allowed, "if I needed it.  But I do not.  I have followers enough of my own."

"Then why have you not already slain the things?" Aniel challenged.

"Consideration for a neighbor's honor.  We have only waited until you were strong enough to take a part, knowing how greatly some of you desire your own vengeance.  Seeing that consideration is not returned—is even turned into a slur—we will delay no longer.  Salve your own honor as you may."

The Man glared at him, rage warring with shame on his shaved face.  "I will hunt for you and your folk," he offered.  "For a year."

"If you are slain by the fiends, I will be cheated of my price.  No."

"My horse."

"What would I do with the beast?" Veylin scoffed.

"My hounds."

Oh, he had him.  The dogs were dear as kin to him.  "Of no more use to me than the horse."

"What would you have?" Aniel cried.  "My bow?  My spear?  My blade?  I have nothing else of value.  I am a huntsman, not a lord!"

Veylin crossed his arms and gazed on him, remembering his fair words last Girithron, when he brought them the gift of venison for the delving of the hall.  He was a good Man, as Men went.  "Your goods I do not want, and your service I do not need.  Yet there is something I would have from you."

"What?" the huntsman asked, with tardy caution.  Perhaps he had called to mind some of the dark tales Men muttered of the bargains of Dwarves.

"Knowledge.  Tell me of this Man who distains me so."

"Partalan?"  Aniel sounded surprised and wary, as if he suspected some trickery or trap.

"Aye, Partalan!" Veylin growled.  "He does not look to be one of your folk, yet he is more jealous of your honor than any of you.  Especially of the Dúnedain.  Who is he, and how did he come to be your lady's cur?"

Aniel weighed this, as if looking for hidden cost.  "If I tell you, you will loan me a spear and take me with you?"

"If I feel you are honest and give full measure.  I want none I cannot trust."

"Very well."  The reluctance and sullen respect in his gaze was part of the price as well; he would not take Veylin's good will for granted again . . . or not for a long while, as Men measured such things.  "Partalan was Halladan's man.  A few years before his father died and he became our lord, Halladan made a journey far beyond the Downs, south and east, seeking good horseflesh.  When he returned, Partalan came with him.  Who his kin are, and why he left his people, I do not know—Partalan will not say, and if Halladan knew, he did not say either.  At least not to us.  He made it plain that he valued the stranger, and those who treated Partalan ill felt Halladan's disfavor.

"So long as we have known him, he has been, as you say, Halladan's cur: a surly hound, but a faithful one."  Aniel did not like speaking in this cold-blooded way of his fellow, and to those stranger than a Man from far lands; Veylin honored him for his distaste.  "He may take a kick for himself, but raise a hand to Halladan and his teeth would be at your throat.  And he has teeth!  He was and is the best among us, save perhaps Halladan, in arms, the bane of reivers and wolves alike.  When the fell beasts began to press us close, Halladan charged Partalan to bring his children to Saelon and keep them all safe."

The huntsman was silent a while, considering whether he need say more.  Veylin waited patiently, and seeing it, Aniel sighed.  "Partalan and Saelon have always respected each other, despite some disapproval on both sides, but he wants a lord who can master him.  He is worse than he was.  That he was not with Halladan at the end eats his heart."  Shaking his head bleakly, he asked, wry-mouthed, "Will that content you?"

Picking up the jug, Veylin held it out to him.  "Yes."  That was not true, but what else he wished to know he did not think this Man could tell.  Or would not, not for what Veylin could offer.  "Get leave from your lady, and ride with us when we leave.  We will need to fit the spear with a shaft that suits you.  When that is done, we will go to Srathen Brethil."

"You have my thanks," Aniel said, bowing his head stiffly as he came forward.

Their hands met on the jug.  "We are not a kindly people," Veylin told him.  "If I seemed so towards your lady, it was because she had earned my regard.  Do not," he warned, "waste this chance to repair the damage that has been done, for you will never get another."

"I will remember," the huntsman promised, and drank.

When the Man had gone, Veylin turned to Bersi and found him gazing at him very thoughtfully indeed.  "I think," the coppersmith murmured, "I am glad that we have never fallen out."  _What will you demand from your heir?_

"Demand?" Veylin questioned dryly.  If Vitr and Vitnir—or any others—were listening behind the door-drape, as some surely must be by now, let them hear.  "Of a Dwarf?  Save me from such foolishness.  They must decide for themselves how much they are willing to give for my good will.  And I will decide if I am pleased.  Yet," he added, with a sharp twist of a smile, "it is said that I am over-generous, is it not?"

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Saelon had been correct; Dírmaen found the Dwarf sitting amid the ruins of the tower his ancient sires had built, the russet of his hood and beard like a patch of autumn bracken against the green turf and pale stone.  He seemed not to have heard the Ranger come, lost in brooding over the smoke from his dark, carved pipe, his gnarled blackthorn stick propped by his side.

Standing in what had been the doorway, Dírmaen took the opportunity to consider Veylin at leisure.  When he had first seen him, he had looked like a dwarf-lord, glittering with gold and fiery gems, come in state to support the Lady's defiance of the sons of Elrond with a half-dozen followers in his train.  Now he might have been any prosperous Dwarf upon the roads, flaunting no more than bright copper and good cloth, save for the stick: the relic of his wounding by the _raugs_ , a crutch for his lameness.

He had heard the Dwarf was a tried warrior, who had seen long service in their war against the Orcs.  What was he thinking, to swear to face the _raugs_ in Srathen Brethil?  Was it mere stiff-necked dwarven cussedness, willing to stare down death for the sake of his pride, or did he honestly think that leg would serve in battle?  Dírmaen could not imagine a Dwarf leaning on a prop he did not need.

Or, like Arathorn, did he dread death less than incapacity?

"Master Veylin?" Dírmaen said quietly, not wishing to seem a spy.

Eyes near as russet as his beard flicked sharply up under those bushy brows, before he raised his face to gaze at him, taking his pipe from his teeth.  "Yes?"  Civil, but no more.

But then, like the other Dwarves, Veylin had always looked upon him with suspicion.  "I have come to see what, if anything, you would take from me in return for the use of a troll-spear against the _raugs_."

It was hard to read the subtleties of their mood, masked as they were by their beards.  Veylin went back to his pipe, eyes narrowed as if in calculation, taking time for thought, and Dírmaen waited patiently.  There was no rushing Dwarves.  "You are not," Veylin finally observed, "one of Saelon's folk.  What is your interest in the matter?"

A fair question.  Saelon's folk they knew; he was a stranger to them.  "I am not the Lady's near kin, it is true," Dírmaen replied.  "Yet we are akin, and I would not have it said the Dúnedain abandoned their own . . . nor any of their charges, no matter how far afield they might be.  And," he added, though it was no afterthought, "I have an interest of my own.  I would avenge my Chieftain."

"Even though you suspect he sought his own death in that cursed valley?"

He remembered that?  "Even so."

Veylin grunted and stuck the pipe back between his teeth.  Though Dírmaen had not tried it himself, some of the Rangers who frequented Bree had taken to pipe-weed, and swore it cleared the mind and aided thought.  Having puffed away for a while longer, the Dwarf asked, "Why should I trust you so near me with such a weapon?"

That Dwarves were mistrustful was a maxim, but Dírmaen had not known they thought him a threat.  "Do you know of some reason why I should be your foe?" he asked, with a wry smile.  "I know none."  As much as Dwarves were on the roads, they should consider Rangers their friends.

"Your Chieftain holds that this is Elvish land, does he not?  That you are allies of the Elves, I have seen."

Ah; perhaps his conscience was not easy on that point.  "I have not been a party in councils discussing such matters, and do not know the right of it."  Dírmaen shrugged.  "You seemed on good terms with the sons of Elrond."  Lindon was not his charge; if the Elves objected to the Dwarves here, they could attend to the matter themselves.

"Still, you wish these Men on the other side of the Lune."

It could not be pleasant for the Dwarf to crane his neck that way, staring up at him.  How much of their hostility came from little things?  Stepping within the ring of stone, Dírmaen sat on ground, which brought them nearly eye-to-eye.  "Yes," he admitted without reserve.  "We could do more for them if they were nearer the rest of our folk.  It is galling—" it was hard not to be bitter, but he kept his tone light "—to be accused of neglect by those who seem to have gone out of their way to make aiding them difficult."

"If you had aided them earlier, while they were still in Srathen Brethil, perhaps they would not have fled to the sea."

"Perhaps," Dírmaen allowed, and gazed on him consideringly.  They had thought Veylin wished to keep these folk here for his own convenience; this sounded as if he looked on them with some concern.  "Yet Eriador is wide, and the Dúnedain are few.  We trust our own to keep their own, until it is plain they cannot."

"Then what do you do?" Veylin chuffed, with a disdainful look.  "Send more mouths, without bringing the stores they sorely need."

Dírmaen frowned.  He had heard something like this before: the bitter discontent Saelon had cast before the sons of Elrond.  Had this Dwarf been poisoning her against her kin?  "Where were we to find so much grain so late in the season?  After sowing, most folk are short.  If you have granaries, why did you not feed them?"

"They are not my folk."  A flat dismissal.

"And they could not pay?"

Veylin shook his head in irritation, not denial.  "Saelon was able to keep them without asking for aid.  If she had asked, we could have come to some agreement."

Only last night Veylin had declared that if Men wished something from him, they must pay.  Dírmaen leaned back against the scarred stones of the tower foot, trying to restrain his distaste.  He had come to make a kind of peace with the Dwarf, not quarrel with him.  "We might debate these things all day, to no avail.  Can we come to some agreement about the spear?  I believe," he declared pointedly, "that we both wish the _raugs_ dead."

"What can you offer that would tempt me?" Veylin wanted to know.

Tempt a Dwarf who might armor himself in jewels?  "What did you get from Aniel?  He has little enough, I know."

"He told me some things I greatly wished to know," Veylin replied, fingering his flowing beard and regarding him speculatively.  "Yet there is something I did not press him on, which you might tell me."

Austerely, Dírmaen informed him, "I am not known for a loose tongue."

"Hold it then," the Dwarf told him with brusque haughtiness and, taking up his stick, stood.  "And I will hold my troll-spear."

Dírmaen struggled with his own pride as the small lord turned to go, and managed, "Will you not even tell me what you would know?"

Looking back over his shoulder, Veylin asked, "Why does Saelon's hound bite at me, when I have been her friend?"

Her friend.  Did he truly consider himself so?  She had saved his life; and he had repaid her with the handsome hall below, freeing himself of further obligation.  Halpan had said he gave her counsel; in Srathen Brethil, Rekk had taken for granted that Veylin and Saelon could come to an agreement that would put troll-spears into her men's hands.  What counsel?  And an agreement favoring whom?  She and Maelchon had been far too generous with their corn.

The easy way her name passed those bearded lips sat ill with him.  And she had known where the Dwarf could be found.  "Because," Dírmaen replied, watching his face closely, "he thinks you too familiar."

Veylin wheeled to face him, glowering, the hand without the pipe clenched on his stick.  "He thinks so ill of his lady?"

He spoke to her honor, not his own.  Dírmaen suddenly wondered if Saelon had struck Lis for the insult to herself, or to Veylin.  There was something, some strange regard, between the two.  What did they see in each other, an impoverished Dúnadaneth who loved the sea and a wealthy Dwarf who could hardly bear the sight of it?  "Dunlendings," the Dúnadan told him, "think women weak-willed and inconstant, easily swayed by their passions."

For a long moment, the Dwarf stared at him blankly, then gave a bark of harsh laughter.  "He is in for a shock."

"I believe he is," Dírmaen agreed gravely.  "Is that all you wished to know?"

Veylin continued to gaze at him, but as if he debated with himself.  When he spoke, his deep voice was curt, as if he misliked his own question.  "The ways of your women are strange to us, and your dealings with them likewise.  Have I given grounds for offense?"

"Not," Dírmaen replied carefully, "that I have seen."  It was said that Dwarves had no women; could it be that he did not understand Men's jealousy regarding them?  Were they truly ungendering, growing from stone?  "Yet it is considered . . . unseemly for a woman to be so free with men not of her kin or household, or her betrothed."

"I have met many mistresses of hall and inn," Veylin scoffed, scowling, "who are as brisk as their menfolk with strangers."

"Unmarried women of high lineage?"

"You trust them so little?"

"It is not them we mistrust," Dírmaen answered, face and voice stark.  This was too much simplicity.  Even if they themselves were sexless, they were too much among Men not to see how much danger there was for women.

"Then why do you blame them, when it is your own care that is lacking?" Veylin demanded, with baffled contempt.  "How can she be lord to these folk, if she must be as bashful as her niece?"

"She ought not to be," Dírmaen declared.

"Bashful?"

"Lord."

"No," Veylin agreed plainly.  "She should not be.  I boggled that her brother did such a thing, until I saw how ill-suited her menfolk were for the charge."

"You think so?"  The longer they spoke, the less Dírmaen understood the Dwarf.

"You do not?  After last night?"

No, Halpan had not showed his finer qualities yesterday.  Yet what could you expect of one so young, wrestling with such doubts, and given his fill of ale after long deprivation?  "I wish," Dírmaen sighed, "that you had not questioned Halpan's courage in that way."  The Men had not been the only ones with their sense blunted by drink, or he would not be here, bartering for the right to slay _raugs_.

"You would have someone so doubtful at your back in battle?"

"In truth," Dírmaen said bluntly, having had his fill of the Dwarf's carping, "I would rather have him beside me than you, as you are."  He looked pointedly at the stick the Dwarf leant on.

As soon as the words were out, he regretted them; still more when he saw how the little man drew himself up as high as he could, off the support of his prop.  "Then you will not go," Veylin declared, coldly resentful, and turned to go.

"Master Veylin," Dírmaen implored, giving a vexed sigh as the Dwarf limped away.  He thought he could battle _raugs_ , halt as he was?  "I do not think you a fool—"

Yet it would be easier to call him so, than to show him pity.  And Dírmaen guessed the first might be forgiven, but the latter never.

The Dwarf gave him neither glance nor pause.  Dírmaen rose to follow him; he could not let him depart in this mood.  How had it come to this?  Already outside the ring, Veylin was heading for the steep slope down to the cliff-shelf.  Surely he did not mean to stump down that way, simply to prove he could?  "Master Veylin—"  Dírmaen reached out to grasp his shoulder.

No sooner had his fingers touched the russet hood then the Dwarf spun—on his good leg, out of Dírmaen's grasp—and struck out, low, with his blackthorn stick.  Savagely, he hooked the Ranger's lead leg out from under him as his weight came down on it.

Taken off guard, Dírmaen went sprawling and only just saved himself from falling onto his face.  Rolling aside to free his scabbard, his hand flew to his sword hilt—

The iron ferrule of Veylin's blackthorn stick pinned him to the ground by his throat.  "Not so crippled as you thought?" the Dwarf growled, eyes blazing with fury.  His other hand was loosening his axe in its sheath.  "Or must I prove it with steel?"

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Notes

**Shawm** : early double-reed [woodwind instrument](http://www.music.iastate.edu/antiqua/medshawm2.jpg).  I prefer this term to "oboe," which Tolkien used for a dwarven musical instrument in _The Hobbit_.

**Crowd** : ancient Celtic string instrument with three to six strings, played by plucking or with a short bow.  An early form of fiddle.


	13. Excess of Youth

Dh'fhalbh na diasan, dh'fhan an asbhuain?               _Are the full ears gone, and only the_ _  
stubble remaining?  
_ Thuit na bailtean, chinn an raineach?                        _Fallen are the townships, and up has  
                                                                                       sprung the bracken?  
_A bheil tom luachrach air gach stairsnich?                 _Is there a clump of rushes on every  
                                                                                       threshold?  
_A shaoghail, tha sinn ann g'a aindeoin;                     _Oh, world, we are here and live on in  
                                                                                       spite of it;  
_tha a' ghrìosach theth fo'n luaithre fhathast.             _the hot ember is yet under the ashes._

\--George Campbell Hay, " _Meftah bâbkum es-sabar_ " ("Patience the key to our door")

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The Ranger did not look so tall lying on the ground, with the blackthorn hard against his windpipe.  "No," Dírmaen rasped.  "You are not so lame as I imagined."  Though he had let his hands fall from his sword, open, the hawk eyes in that lean Dúnedain face were grimly attentive.  Humbled, but not beaten: he might still bite.  "Your pardon, Master.  I have been a fool."

"You have," Veylin agreed, between his teeth.  The knee was a grinding fire, goading him to rage; though the success of his attack gave satisfaction, it was sour.  Just when he had thought that, despite their many differences, they might come to terms, the Man had cast his lameness in his face—and capped the offense by attempting to restrain him.  How could anything be retrieved from this impasse?  "Why should I pardon that?"

At least Dírmaen had the sense to keep still, and not rush to an answer.  "I would rather fight _raugs_ than you," he finally replied.

Veylin gave a bitter laugh.  That sounded honest enough, whichever way one took it.  "I am glad to hear it!  Yet you did not wish it enough to curb your tongue."  How could he trust the Ranger at his back with a troll-spear now?

"Nor you yours.  I will not fawn for your favor.  If my candor offends, we must disagree."

The Man did not lack courage, saying such things in a voice roughened by the thrust at his throat.  "My favor is not to be had by fawning," Veylin rumbled.  If Dírmaen thought so ill of him, little wonder that he could not bear his assay.  "I am not a Man, to desire lackeys.  All I ask is stout folk I can trust to stand by me.  I have proved I can stand," he said, leaning into his stick a fraction more to press the point.  "Halpan must prove he is stout-hearted."

Dírmaen did not writhe.  "How can he do that, save by going with you?" he grated, low and harsh.

"He can face me," Veylin declared, "and speak for himself, to start!  Am I more daunting than a fiend?"

"He is ashamed," Dírmaen told him.  "He is young and he was drunk.  Were you never remiss, when you were so?"

Veylin grimaced.  Saelon's Men thought him soft enough to swallow abuse; this one thought him heartless.  "Then let him confess it and make amends!  We are all fools," he growled, "at some time or other.  What matters—" he drew back the stick and stepped warily away "—is what we do afterwards."  Hopefully this was not foolishness, or at least such as he could do something about afterwards.

Dírmaen stayed where he was, only lifting a hand to rub his throat.  "And I?  How might I make amends?"

"I do not know."  Veylin gazed down on him with deep discontent.  One could hardly fault him for defending his kinsman, even if unwisely.  That the Ranger could keep a cool head at need was now beyond doubt.  Yet they seemed to understand each other very ill, and that could be more perilous than hate, since it could not be relied upon.  As useful as Dírmaen might be against the fiends, they were not desperate.  "I will not debate further with you, lest we disagree worse.  If you would earn my good will," Veylin hazarded, "harden that young Man and teach him his duty.  Halpan must treat with me for you both.  We understand each other better—or we did."

Slowly the Man sat up and rested his arms on his knees; from his look, he was as little satisfied as Veylin.  "What is it you want from these folk?" he asked, dark brows knotted.

"Good neighbors!" Veylin snapped.  "Will you not leave be, at least until our tempers are cool?"  He set his hand on his axe again.  "Or would you have the breach past mending?  Go!"

He went.

After Dírmaen had left him, Veylin turned back towards the ruin, limping heavily to a stray block where he could sit and ease his leg.  The knee had held, but it had not pained him so since those first weeks he had put weight back on it.  Kneading the muscles that took the strain, he brooded blackly over the wreck of his patient plans.  He had waited until the Men were strong enough to face the fiends on a reasonable footing, yet it seemed that was also strong enough to fleer at his forbearance.  Which only justified his kin's view of the folly of such consideration.  Why should he trouble to forge an alliance between them?  They did not need the Men.  Having these folk so near, and friendly, was a convenience, no more.  Was fresh meat and longer arms in a fray on occasion worth so much moil?

Under the sough of the wind and the mutter of the sea, he heard a patter and scrambling on the steep slope from the cliff-shelf, and piping, childish laughter; a breathless youth's voice chanted, "Race!  Race!"

Shortly, a slim, dark-haired child scrabbled up onto the flat, clutching the tussocky grass with his hands as he climbed.  Hot on his heels was Gaernath, hair flaming in the sun, grinning madly.  "Beat you!" Hanadan crowed, turning and pouncing on him.  The two tumbled together on the brink like tussling fox pups.

It was a wonder they did not roll back down the way they had come.  He must have made some noise, for the two abruptly froze and turned their heads to stare, startled as beasts.  But only for a moment.  With a delighted cry of "Master Veylin!" Hanadan, who was momentarily uppermost, launched himself from Gaernath, who doubled up with a _whuf_ , and ran to the Dwarf.  He did not halt or even slow, but threw his arms around Veylin's waist, nearly knocking him off his rock.  As Veylin cried "Ho!" in stern reproach, the Dúnedain child gazed up at him, smiling eagerly.  "Can I go slay _raugs_ with you?  Please?"

Oh, if only his elder kinsman was so bold!  "Ach, child," Veylin rumbled, prying him off and holding him at arm's length, with a louring frown.  "No.  You are still too tender for such work.  We must wait until you are bigger."

"You aren't much bigger than me!" the slender rascal objected, with decided heat.

Veylin gave a snort of a laugh and ruffled Hanadan's hair.  "True!  Though I have plenty of small, fierce folk to fight by my side.  If I take any of your people, they will be tall Men who can wield long spears."

Gaernath had clambered to his feet and wandered over, smiling down on them, but now his easy grin was replaced by a gravely earnest look.  "I am tall," he said.  "And I can use a spear.  Please, Master, may I go?"

Looking up at that soft face, only now growing the first downy wisps of a beard, Veylin considered, more for the sake of the youth's pride than in seriousness.  Gaernath had been brave and true-hearted through the trials that had brought their folk together last autumn, but this would be grimmer and more perilous work.  "How old are you?" Veylin asked, and a furtive look in those blue eyes led him to add forbiddingly, "The truth, now."  He did not know Men so well that he could tell if the lad added a few years.

"Sixteen," Gaernath answered, half-sullen, half-preening.

"Sixteen years?" Veylin exclaimed, taken aback.  So few as that?  Hardly old enough to be allowed out of the mansion alone—yet he had ridden, alone, to Srathen Brethil a year ago, under the threat of the fiends, to bring aid to Saelon . . . and Men were so short-lived.  "How old is Halpan?"

"Twenty-seven."

"I'm seven," Hanadan informed him forthrightly.

"Are you?  And so tall already?" Veylin replied, half-distracted, to content him.  Great gangling babes: no wonder they were so thoughtless, and tender.  "There is a difference in the span of years between common Men and Dúnedain, I know."  Veylin gazed uncertainly at Gaernath, hoping that he was not rousing resentment.  "You do not look like a Man of the West, with that fiery hair, yet Saelon claims you as kin.  Which are you?  Is there also a difference in when you reach manhood?"  Perhaps he had expected more of Halpan than the young Man could give.

"My grandmother was Dúnedain, the youngest daughter of the lord," Gaernath told him proudly, then sobered.  "But her children have not lived so long.  I am Edain.  There is not much difference when we are young, save that the Dúnedain wed later.  We Edain cannot wait so long."

Veylin grunted.  That the men of the Dúnedain wed late he had heard at the board last night, while Maelchon must have wed as a youth indeed to have a brood so large.  If they were of an age to wed, one could hardly treat them as children, no matter how few their years.  "Are you a Man grown, then?"

"Almost."  The redhead's tone was defiant.

"I honor you," Veylin said gravely, "for your desire to avenge your folk, but this is no task for striplings.  Halpan went against them, as high-hearted as you I do not doubt, and you have seen how ill he fared—though he had luck enough to come home alive and sound.  Do not rush to take up such burdens when the need is not dire.  The time will come, soon enough, when you will have no choice.  The world grows no safer."

"How old are you?" Gaernath asked, liking this advice no more than any youth and demanding to know his grounds for authority.

It was an impertinent question, but his had been presumptuous as well.  "One hundred and forty."  Too young to resign himself to hall and workshop, leaving the labor to others.  He had no wish to grow as fat as Bersa.  If he could totter onto the shore to face the sea for the sake of opals, he could face the fiends to keep his honor. . . or it were better that he should go on to where the leg could be mended.  "Come," he said, laying a hand on Hanadan's shoulder as he rose, setting aside the pain of his knee.  "Let us go back down to the hall.  It is nearly time for dinner, is it not?"

Hanadan flew ahead as they went down the slope, giggling over his falls and slithering slides; his delight distracted Veylin somewhat from the dignified travail of his descent.  By the time he reached the narrow tail of the cliff-shelf, Gaernath courteously keeping him company, Rekk was waiting for them.  "There you are," the waterwright said blandly, though he had one umber brow arched in silent question.  "Has this fire-headed stripling badgered you into taking him with us?"

Gaernath gazed down on Rekk, disgruntled.  "There is no call to make fun of me," he grumbled.  "I would have spoken out, if I had been there last night."

"If you wish to be treated like a Man grown," Rekk declared without pity, "behave like one, and sit in council instead of frolicking with the little ones."  As the youth's face grew near as red as his hair, Rekk cocked his grey-hooded head.  "Where is your Lady?"

Under the scrutiny of the two Dwarves, Gaernath shuffled uneasily.  "She keeps to her chamber."

"I did not think her so faint-hearted," Rekk sniffed.

Veylin scowled, yet held his tongue and kept his eye on Gaernath to see what explanation he might give, shifting his weight from his lame leg.  "That is not—" the young Man started hotly, then shut his mouth and glared at them.  "Is nothing we do good enough for you?" he flared up again.  "You do not know what we have had to bear—what she has had to bear!—this year."

Rekk shrugged.  "That you have borne it is to your credit, but that does not mean you could not do better.  Perhaps," he allowed, "we expect too much from you.  Few bear trials so well as Dwarves."

"Are we nothing but cottars to you?"  The youth's words had the acid bite of disillusionment, as if repeating something he had not credited until now.

"Cottars?" Rekk echoed quizzically.

"Those who are suffered to live on the land in return for laboring on it."

One of those divisions Men made among themselves, setting some higher and some lower: this sounded little better than thralldom.  Veylin was on the verge of pointing out that the land was in contention when Rekk said coolly, "We wait to see if you are content to be so."

When Gaernath had stalked off, Veylin sighed and frowned at his tactless friend.  "They are not Dwarves," he cautioned, wondering if the youth would see beyond the harshness to the care beneath.  "Why waste such words on that child?  I begin to think they cannot distinguish doubt from hostility."

Rekk considered him closely.  "Because there is good metal here, as you have long said.  Though it needs working up.  Why so dour?" he asked, sitting on a convenient chunk of cliff-fall; his gaze lingered on Veylin's game leg.  "Did you give the Ranger that grim look he wears?"

Easing down beside him, Veylin muttered in Khuzdul, "He came near to getting my axe."

"You refused him, then."

Veylin gave a great huff of exasperation.  "We came to blows.  Well," he amended, as Rekk stared in astonishment, "I knocked him down."

"And he gave you no return?"

"Not with my stick at his throat and my hand on my axe.  At least," Veylin said, fingering the blackthorn, "I have proved my fitness for battle to his satisfaction."  If it had not been pity that stayed the Man's hand.

Rekk clapped him on the shoulder.  "We do not need him.  Your cousins are in a fair way of amendment.  Vitr questioned me long this morning about Srathen Brethil, and how the tarn lies."

A year ago, not many paces from where they now sat, the two of them had sworn themselves brothers in vengeance for Thekk: Rekk's brother, Veylin's dearest friend and his sister's spouse.  "I have not had the chance to ask you about your plan," Veylin rumbled.  "Was it no more than a mad ale-spawned inspiration, or have you truly been weighing such a scheme?"

"Mad," Rekk scoffed.  "No wonder you cannot convince the Men!  No," he assured him, "I have been worrying at this since I stood on the verge of that befouled puddle.  Nordri will come, and bring his sons; with Oddi and his followers, we will have all the delvers we need to swiftly cut an outfall channel that will drain the tarn.  I can set off with Nordri and his folk tomorrow for Sulûnduban, to collect Oddi and those he can bring.  Is there anything you need from there?" he wondered.  "I thought you would meet us in Srathen Brethil with the others and supplies in a week.  That will give us two days to cut a scrape for all to shelter in at night."

Yes, Oddi ached to avenge Vestri, his only son . . . and Veylin's prentice.  So many ties drew him to battle with these fiends, even without his own score.  Rubbing his leg, Veylin asked, "How many others are there likely to be?"

"Perhaps half a score.  Is it the leg that makes you so glum," Rekk chuffed, "or the lack of Men?  Do not fret about them.  We may not have room to house them, if so many of our folk come.  Even Grani is considering it, since his cousin Nordri goes.  Thyrnir is working on him; it would be good to have a carpenter for the dam."  Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he asked, "Have any of the Men satisfied you?"

"The huntsman; and that flame-headed child asked very prettily, though I will not have him."

"Child?" Rekk snorted.  "He is not so young as that.  You should have taken him: it would have done him good to go out with us.  He will not get much training in arms here.  What about Halpan?"

"I have seen no more of him than Saelon," Veylin admitted.  "But I have set the Ranger to rousing him out."

Rekk raised disdainful eyebrows.  "Not only does he allow you to knock him down, but he does your bidding?"

"He has a Chieftain of his own to avenge, since the Dúnedain's attempt to slay these things failed.  What other chance is he likely to get?  Since the two of us are flint and steel, I have told him that Halpan must treat with me on his behalf."

"And Partalan?"

Veylin glanced along the base of the cliff towards the hall.  What was Saelon doing, retreating to her bower?  He could not believe, as Rekk had suggested, that she despaired of mending the breach and was simply hiding in shame; no more than he would suspect his own sister of being so craven.  Yet as he had warned Saelon that she knew little of Dwarves, there was much he did not know of Men . . . and their women.  She had no great jewel to flaunt to justify her actions and command respect, as he had; nor was she a warrior, to compel obedience through might, as seemed usual among Men.  "No one but Saelon can master him, I think.  Though I can no more imagine how than I can see myself putting a spear in his hands."

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Dinner was spread on the board and cleared away, and still Veylin had not seen Saelon, nor Halpan, nor Partalan.  He began to wonder if there had been a quarrel that had taken an ill turn, so that Saelon was unable to come . . . only such a thing could not be hidden within so small a hall.  Her folk were not as easy as was usual, it was true, and some of the women less complaisant with their menfolk and more attentive to his.  Yet surely if Saelon had been overthrown or abused they would be more disturbed.  Dírmaen was not at the board either, though as the shadows began to draw out again Veylin caught a glimpse of him striding across the plain towards the northern headland, head swiveling like that of a hunting hawk.  Was one or both of the miscreants truant?

Time wore on; the threshing was finished and the corn bagged; and the ponies were being laden, save for his sorrel, hitched to the rowan nearest the bench by Saelon's cave.  Sitting there, watching the Men and Dwarves working together, Veylin wondered which if any or indeed all of these Men—Maelchon, the greybeard and his fair-haired grandsons, Finean and Fokel—were cottars.  None of them had come to ask for a place in the foray.  Men who worked; Men who fought.  So odd, for all Dwarves worked, all fought.  What was the place of a servant who fought, such as Partalan?  If a Dúnadan did not fight, did he fall?

"Master Veylin."

He looked quickly around to find Saelon standing there, a cup in her hands.  The title sounded strange on her lips.  "A stirrup-cup," she offered, "to set you on your way."

"Thank you, Lady," he replied, matching her formality.  Her lean face was austere and still angry; he had not seen that set to her mouth since the night Oddi and Rekk had craved her pardon in silver and gold.  Perhaps it was not he the truants feared to face.  "Did Aniel come to ask for your leave?"

"He did.  I am glad," she said, very severely, "that he was able to make his peace with you.  He at least will hold by his oaths."

It was hard, seeing her fall back into bitterness after so brief a taste of joy.  No, she should not be lord: she did not love the work, and she did not love these people, who had never loved her.  Yet she must bear the burden for a while, until her brother's son was of an age to relieve her.  Halpan would not.  How to help her look beyond his failure?  "Of the other supplicants, I have refused two and set conditions on the third."

"Halpan and Partalan have already sought you out?"  She sounded offended as well as surprised.

"Them I have not seen," Veylin admitted gravely.  "Yet your youngest kinsman was very earnest in his entreaty, and if Gaernath had Halpan's years, I would have taken him."

"Youngest?"  Saelon frowned in puzzlement, then gave an exasperated sigh.  "Hanadan?  A child knows what duty requires!  Who was the third?"

"The Ranger."

Now she looked thoughtful.  "What conditions?"

Before he could answer, Halpan came up the track with long, furious strides and turned towards the hall, moving so quick and single-mindedly that Veylin was unsure if the young Dúnadan even saw him or Saelon, though the cliff's overhang no longer cast a shadow now that the sun was midway down the sky.  He caught Saelon's wrist before she could start after the youngster and, when she turned back to him with a bating falcon's glare, counseled, "Wait.  See what he does.  If he does not come back out, you can scathe him at your leisure."

"You would leave without an apology?"

Veylin frowned up at her.  "I want no hollow words."

Now Dírmaen came from the track onto the yard, at a measured pace and with a discontented look . . . that changed quickly to grave surprise when he saw Veylin and Saelon before him.  Swiftly, the Ranger glanced up and down the cliff-shelf, then stood at gaze when he caught sight of Halpan turning into the hall.

"The conditions," Veylin murmured to Saelon, "were that he harden Halpan to his duty—and that Halpan must satisfy me on both their counts."

From the look of exasperated anger on the Ranger's face, he was now of Veylin's mind about the younger Dúnadan's courage.  Veylin watched him closely, curious to see what he would do.  For a few breaths, they matched stares; then Dírmaen wandered off among the ponies, until he found Maelchon.  As the two of them began to talk, Saelon asked, "Why did you not take Dírmaen on his own account?  He is a better swordsman than Partalan, a better tracker than Aniel, and more help to me than any two of the others."

"We mistrust one another."

That did not content her; yet she let it lie.  "When will you leave for Srathen Brethil?" she asked, sounding more like herself.

Veylin had hardly finished laying out the basics of Rekk's plan for her when Halpan came striding up, one hand tightly clenched in a fist.  "Master Veylin," he said stiffly but clearly, in a carrying voice, not acknowledging Saelon, "I had too much ale last night, and was remiss in my duty as your host.  Partalan offended you and your folk, not once but several times, and I did not check him as firmly as I ought."  Beyond him, all work had stopped; Nordri thumped a pony that stood in his way, craning for a better view over its empty saddle.  "That is bad no matter who the guest.  Yet you are the staunch friend of our Lady, and have aided us so much this last year that nothing can excuse me.

"I have heard," he pressed on," that you are willing to lend troll-spears to those who can pay.  Here is all I have of value."  He threw whatever was in his fist toward Veylin, who snagged the small, dully gleaming thing from the air.  "I hope it is enough, for I would serve you better than I served my own Chieftain."

Veylin looked at what he held and saw it was a silver brooch shaped like a rayed star, somewhat tarnished from neglect.  Then to Dírmaen, and the brooch's brother clasped on the Ranger's cloak.  Beside him, Saelon drew a sharp breath.

Dírmaen shoved his way through the half-laden beasts.  "That is not yours to give," he cried out to Halpan, voice deepened by outrage.  "It is a trust to keep!"

The youngster did not reply, or even look at him, only gazed fixedly at Veylin, waiting for his answer.  Considering him carefully, Veylin decided he was not drunk: he could not have gotten through that brittle speech if he were.  Nor if he were very ale-sick, though his color was not good.  Perhaps his head was just ill enough to make him savage.  Yes, Halpan was in his wits, such as he ever had.

And the brooch?  A trifle of cast and polished silver with a stout clasp, of no great value.  Arðri could make a better.  Yet he had never heard of one in hands other than those of the Men of the Star.  And Dírmaen's opposition sweetened its taste.  Holding it up between two fingers and turning it to and fro as if admiring it, so the shape could be plainly seen, he asked, "Is this for you both?"

"Both?"  Halpan shot a scowling, baffled glance at the Ranger.

They had fallen out before the elder Dúnadan told the younger he required his good will?  Better and better.  "I told Dírmaen that you must treat for him as well," Veylin replied evenly.  "He did not say?"

Before the Men they considered beneath them; before their Lady, whom they did not honor as they should; before a dozen Dwarves, the two of them stood there and glowered at each other.  Veylin waited with patient interest: yes, this contented him.  The Ranger wished to avenge his Chieftain; he wished the younger Man to have the chance to recover his pride.  Very well, he could have them both—if he let the Star go.  Unless he had enraged Halpan so much that the youngster would deny him, as well as cast away his people's greatest honor.  That, too, Veylin would not mind.

When he had set Dírmaen to rouse the youth, he had not thought there was such a fire in him.  Nor had Dírmaen, it seemed.

"Yes," Halpan declared, still glaring at his elder.  "For both."  Defying the Ranger.

Folk said Dírmaen was a quiet Man, and he was silent now.  When his silence had stretched on so long the answer was plain to all who watched, Veylin said, "Very well," and closed his hand around the brooch.  "I accept.  You had best pack swiftly.  We leave as soon as the beasts are laden."  He did not doubt either of them less . . . but he could not resist the temptation to see what shapes they would hammer each other into.  There was time yet before they would face the fiends; if their temper grew worse rather than better, they could be left behind.

"It will take longer than that to ready our horses," Halpan protested.

Veylin shook his head.  "No horses.  Unless you are prepared to abandon them along the way.  There will be no shelter for such beasts in Srathen Brethil."

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Notes

**Assay** : the analysis of an ore, to determine its worth.

**"Hardly old enough to be allowed out of the mansion alone"** : Dwarves considered their children too tender for really hard work or fighting until 30, and not fully hardened until 40 ("tender" and "hardened" are Tolkien's terms).  The measure of full maturity is that they rarely married before 90 (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 284–285).  Thorin was 24 when he survived Smaug's descent on the Lonely Mountain because he happened to be outside, a self-described "fine adventurous lad."

**"wed as a youth indeed to have a brood so large"** : actually, Maelchon wed in his mid-20s, a good age for a prosperous farmer's heir, and Fransag has given him 6 children in 12 years.  This is another area where Dwarvish norms are distorting Veylin's perspective.  Not only do Dwarves wed late, but their birth spacing (the time between children) is long: Tolkien speaks as if 10 years is the norm (HoME XII: _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_ , p. 285), and this is supported by the genealogy of Durin's Line given in _LotR_ Appendix A.  (Although there was only 5 years between the birth of Thorin and his brother Frerin, and their nephews Kili and Fili—perhaps this reflects an eagerness to ensure heirs in perilous times.)  While a Dwarf who troubled to think about it would realize that Men have children more frequently, few probably have reason to do so.

**"go on to where the leg could be mended"** : Veylin is literally thinking of going to meet his Maker.  "For they say that Aulë the Maker, whom they call Mahal, cares for them, and gathers them to Mandos in halls set apart" ( _The Silmarillion_ , Ch. 2).

**Dinner** : traditionally, the main meal in the middle of the day.

**Bating** : the impatient or wild beating of the wings by a restrained bird of prey.


	14. Doubtful Friends

_I do desire we may be better strangers._

\--Shakespeare, _As You Like It_ , III, ii, 276

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The three of them trailed in the wake of the Dwarves' pack-train.  Veylin rode at the head, conversing with Rekk and the one with the Lothron-green hood who had bartered with Saelon—Bersi?  Or was he Bersa?  No, Bersa was the fat one with the buff hood nearest them, who puffed and grumbled into his tawny beard as he led his laden beast through the hummocks of flowering heather.  Veylin was the only one not afoot: was that his pride, or his leg?  Or both?

Ahead of him, Aniel demanded, "What of Partalan?  Where is he?"

When Halpan did not answer, Dírmaen said dryly, "Still sleeping off the drink, when I found them."

"Still?" Aniel exclaimed, astonished.

Dírmaen looked to Halpan.  "When did you stop drinking?"

"Long before Partalan did," he admitted.

Aniel looked between the two of them and shook his head.  "He has always turned to drink to drown his woes . . . and when did he not have them?  But this is too much.  Saelon will flay him."

"Will he care?" Dírmaen wondered.

"A kinless man, far from his home—what does he have, save his bond?"  Aniel shook his head again.  "Perhaps she will send him to Halmir, and we will get Tarain back."  Aniel and the golden-headed swordsman had been close comrades, Dírmaen remembered.

Halpan snorted.  "Unless Sorcha has trammeled him."

"Then he would bring her, too," Aniel asserted.  "Another family here would be a good thing."

No, it would not.  The fewer Men this side of the Lune, the better.  Dírmaen held his tongue, however.  Keeping watch by night, he saw many things; lately that included Aniel and Unagh, Finean's eldest, clipping in the dark.  He had already spoken overmuch this day, and naught but ill had come of it.

Walking at a burdened pony's pace through country he now knew well gave the Ranger ample time to regret his harsh words to Halpan, spoken as they left the hollow in the highest dunes where he had found him with the snoring Partalan.  _We all make many promises and we cannot keep them all.  Men are respected for choosing well in hard places, not for making excuses . . . even if they are good ones._   He had been speaking of the promise that bound Halpan here to foster Hanadan, made to a shattered woman full of spite—not of his oath to the Chieftain.  Who could have imagined he would give over the Rangers so readily?  The oath was to the office, not the man.

Perhaps the Dwarf was not mistaken.  Perhaps the trials of the last year had broken Halpan as well, though in ways less obvious than his brother's wife.

When they had been near three hours on their way and the sun lowered towards the sea, Dírmaen began to wonder where they were headed.  He had often given thought to where the Dwarves might dwell, and knew it could not be more than three leagues from Habad-e-Mindon: Gaernath could not have gone further than that between the arrival of the sons of Elrond and his mud-spattered return to the hall on that stormy day last month.  With so much stone in this land, however, that was not much help.

He had assumed that their halls were in the knees of the Ered Luin, on the far side of the moor, but they had not crossed those deceptively flat barrens on the drier land along Habad's little river.  That suggested they dwelt further north: though none of them liked the sea, the way was easier near to it, and Dwarves were expert in finding the least laborious route across the land.  But neither did they turn inland on the broken ridge that fenced the bog-moor—the place where Veylin had been attacked by a _raug_ —on the north.

Dírmaen considered the great flat-topped hill that stood solitary before them, rising like a tower above the wave-battered headlands.  Was this the place?  He had been here twice since he came to this shore, for from its top one had an unsurpassed view of all the country around.  He had seen no sign nor track of Dwarf—nor anything except beast and bird—either time.  Would Dwarves dwell so near the sea?

So it seemed, for when they reached the foot of the hill, they halted.  After the Dwarves talked briefly among themselves in their harsh tongue, some took ponies from others.  Veylin rode back to the three of them, Rekk and Thyrnir walking alongside, their hoods in their hands.  "We are nearly on our doorstep," Veylin told them, heartily cheerful, "so whatever thirst you have raised, you can quench it soon—and with something stronger than your Lady's good ale, if you wish.  Yet," he went on, more soberly, "you must bear with us.  This is a small place, far from our mansions, and its chief defense is its secrecy.  You must be hooded this last step, so you cannot see the way."

"Hooded?" Halpan exclaimed, jolted from his morose silence.

Aniel stared.  "You mistrust us so much?"

The mounted Dwarf gazed at Dírmaen.  "Some of you," he said bluntly.  "My folk feel it would be best to treat you all alike."

Rekk smiled, as if this was a jest.  "Veylin is too trusting."

The huntsman scowled at the brown-bearded Dwarf.  "What offense have I given," he protested, "to be treated like an enemy?"

"We do not," Thyrnir told him, "suffer enemies in our halls, alive or dead.  Come, Aniel."  He held out his dark green hood.  "Humor us."

Unlike the other two, Dírmaen was not surprised by the request—if request it was.  That did not mean he liked it any better.  "If you do not trust us, why should we trust you?"

Veylin leaned back in his saddle, brows raised.  "Because you wish to use our spears against your foes?  If you do not like this condition, you are free to walk home again."

"Give it to me," Halpan said shortly, taking the hood from Thyrnir.  "Aniel, take Rekk's.  If nothing else will content them, we must be as hawks.  And when we are blind and douce," he asked, perilously close to scorn, fixing his eye on Veylin, "will you take us up on your wrists and carry us in?"

The dwarf-lord laughed, and urged his pony closer, extending his russet hood towards Dírmaen.  "Why you Men treat valiant birds so, I do not understand.  Yet Rekk and Thyrnir will handle you as carefully."

So they did, though they took them a mazed and weary way, up and down and slowly around the trackless sides of the hill, until even Dírmaen was uncertain which quarter they were on.  Muffled in thick wool, he could not feel the breeze or sun on his face; the unevenness of the rough slopes made counting strides almost useless, as they doubled back and forth on lopsided switchbacks.  There was only Rekk's calloused grip on his wrist, leading him onwards and usually upwards, and the Dwarf's patient words of guidance.  After a while, Dírmaen could not even hear the shuffling steps of his companions—although once he heard Aniel yelp, and Thyrnir's low laugh and quick apology, not far off.

Dírmaen guessed they could have walked around the broad base of the hill at least twice before Rekk halted him on a welcome flat.  "We will wait here for the others," he told him, and withdrew his hand.

The Ranger nodded, and shifted as if easing weary feet.  In truth, he was seeking some glow through the hood that might tell him which way west lay.  If the clouds would spare him enough sun for such a clue, or they were not still on the eastern side of the mount.  He could hear the cheerful sound of a little water falling . . . and, after a while, the firm fall of dwarven boots and the uncertain steps of his fellow Men.

"Here," Rekk said, "I will take Halpan."

"A high step up, Aniel," Thyrnir encouraged, "and then there will be no more climbing.  It is all flat from here."

"Where is Dírmaen?" Halpan asked, sounding troubled.

"Here," he assured him.

Close beside, Aniel chaffed nervously, "Did you run the whole way?"

Rekk chuckled.  "That one knows how to set his feet.  Go on with Halpan," he said, presumably to Thyrnir.  "I will wait with these two."

The silence between them felt strained and unnatural.  Not far off, Thyrnir could be heard murmuring, "Duck your head.  Lower.  _Lower_."  Aniel cleared his throat; Dírmaen had the sense that the huntsman wished to speak, or at least jest, about their awkward trek, but not in front of the Dwarf . . . or at least not blindly.  Yet they were not kept in suspense long.

"I am back, Aniel," Thyrnir said.  "This way."

"We will follow close behind," Rekk told Dírmaen, clasping his wrist again.  "The passage is narrow and low.  Go slow, or you will crack your high head!"  In a few steps the light dimmed further and stone brushed the Ranger's shoulders, so he was forced to go half-sideways, trying to keep sword and pack clear as well.  "Two more steps, then hard right—and keep your head well down."

A wide space, so that his free hand could find no rock.  Rekk drew him on.  "Your way is straight and clear," and, a few longer paces further, "you no longer need stoop."  From the sound, so far as he could tell through the fabric, Dírmaen thought they were in a passage; then he sensed they had entered a larger space, a much larger space.  A hard, somehow weighty noise came from behind him, then a sharp click, like a bolt going home.

Rekk halted him and, near to hand, Thyrnir said, "Take off the hoods."

Dírmaen stripped the cloth from his head, glad to breathe free air once more.  Quickly he glanced around.  The three of them stood at one end of a grand hall, whose roof sprang from columns like the boles of mighty trees, higher overhead than any canopy of leaves.

No, he need not stoop.  Nor was it dim, despite the darkness of the polished stone, for the broad space was well-lit by lamps hung from the soaring vaults and others fixed to the pillars.  Before them stood Veylin.  "Welcome to Gunduzahar," he greeted them, and since Halpan and Aniel were gaping with stark astonishment, offered the silver cup he held to Dírmaen.

Accepting it, he drank in token of peace.  It was red wine, a fine, strong vintage; rarely had he tasted a better.  He would have thanked the Dwarf, but for the demeaning manner of their entry and the look of amused satisfaction he was bestowing on the other two.  Deliberately gazing around in a more leisurely fashion, Dírmaen commented dryly, "A small place?"  It was at least twenty-five paces in length and a dozen between the pairs of pillars, with aisles on either side.  The far end held a long table that would easily seat a score.

"Truly," Veylin assured him.

"No," Halpan protested, shaking his head.  "Our hall is a small place."  Dírmaen guessed the younger Dúnadan had never seen a hall so large as this.  He himself had only been in one, larger still, whose carving was more elegant, and the walls hung with colorful, storied tapestries.  Beside Rivendell, this place was stark and unlovely.

Though perhaps the comparison was unfair.

Veylin chuckled and pressed a cup of wine into Halpan's hand.  "A shelter against the winter's storms, no more.  Did I not say so, at the time?"  Going to Aniel, he gave him a cup likewise.  "Drink," he invited.  "Sit—" he gestured towards the aisle, where some low seats and benches were gathered around a manteled hearth, carved into the wall and sporting a cheerful blaze "—if your feet are weary after so tiresome a climb.  Supper will be on the board soon.  No feast, I fear," he shrugged, "for we must busy ourselves, if Rekk and his party are to set out tomorrow morning.  If you lack anything," and he motioned forward a Dwarf with a beard of pale gold, who had held the other cups for him, "Oski here will see to it."

"At your service," Oski said politely, bowing.

Halpan gazed at him thoughtfully.  "Were you not at Habad-e-Mindon last month, and helped search for Hanadan?"

"The child who ran away?  Yes," Oski agreed, "I was one of the hunters."

"At your service and your family's."  Halpan bowed in his turn.  "The boy is my nephew."

"The boy is a rascal," Veylin rumbled.  "I am surprised we did not find him hiding in a grain sack."  Yet he looked pleased rather than otherwise.  "Until supper."  He took his leave with a slight bow.

With such mixed kindness began their sojourn among the Dwarves.  Baffled by the harshness and hospitality, the Ranger fell back on his greatest skill: he watched in silence, seeking some pattern he could read, as he might divine the presence of wolves by the drift of deer or the prospect of fair weather in the shapes of clouds.  Dwarves on the road he had believed he knew; but like Man or beast or bird, their manner was altered on their own ground and his understanding had failed him.

More than a score of Dwarves sat down to supper at the long cherrywood table, though it was more like a council of war than a meal.  Veylin, with Rekk at his right hand and Halpan placed on his left, spent more time speaking than eating, laying out the plan and what needed to be done.  His folk interrupted him freely, with questions or counsel or simply to volunteer for some duty.  The only ones who seemed on their dignity were the chestnut-bearded brothers who had traded with Maelchon, Vitr and Vitnir.

Dírmaen was unsure of the ranking among them, if there was any.  In all honesty, without their colorful hoods, he had trouble distinguishing between those less well known to him, let alone the many he had never met before.  Were those who did not speak lower?  Yet Thyrnir, Veylin's nephew, said nothing.  Were they merely younger?  Yet they all looked to be of full age: no downy-cheeked youths, no greybeards.

A few times they consulted with Halpan or Aniel over details such as the lay of the land, sometimes asking questions even they could not answer, like what kind of stone lay about the tarn.  Otherwise, the talk was all among the Dwarves.  The two Men of Srathen Brethil were mumchance, daunted by the strangeness of it all, including the awkward lowness of the table.  Dírmaen's counsel they did not seek, though he could see few flaws in their plan, so far as it went.  What they would find when the _raug's_ nest was laid bare, none could guess.

Once the council was finished, Veylin and his folk excused themselves on the grounds of much work and little time, leaving them to Oski's care.  He brought them bedding and bolsters against the hard stone of the floor, and when after a last cup of wine they made camp in a corner of the great chamber, doused most of the lamps and settled himself with a blanket on one of the finely carved settles by the hearth—near enough to be within call but not so near that Aniel feared to whisper, "Did you have any idea there were so many of them? Or such a hall?"

"Not so many, no," Dírmaen murmured back.  "Nor so far from the mountains.  What brought them here, do you know?"

The huntsman gave a tiny shake of his head.  "Have they not always been here?"

"In the mountains, yes.  Yet not here.  You have seen how much they mislike the sea."

"What does it matter?" Halpan muttered, pulling his blanket over his head and turning from them.

"You have a rich and powerful neighbor," Dírmaen said quietly.  "You take his good will for granted?"

"Hardly.  Was I mistaken," the younger Dúnadan's muffled voice was sour, "or did you think I bought it too dearly?  No, I err—too dearly for myself alone."

"Hush," Aniel hissed, glancing towards Oski.  "This is no place for such a quarrel.  What has come between you?"

Halpan was silent; Dírmaen sighed softly and turned over himself.  Pride; honor; a piece of silver.  Petty, insurmountable things.  What could he say that would not make matters worse?  Such things must be left in the hands of the One, in hopes that this twisted path they were taking would bring some good, and not merely more rancour and death.

Yet it was long ere he could sleep, in the close darkness under stone.

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Dírmaen slept brokenly for unease and the strangeness of the place.  When he woke to somewhat more light and the muted clatter of a board being laid at the other end of the hall, he gave over.  Leaving Aniel and Halpan still sleeping—their rest had been little sounder—the Ranger tidied away his bed and stepped out to the closet, where the water was as chill as the fountain that sprang from the cliffs at Habad-e-Mindon.  Wits duly braced by dousing, he strode down the hall to confront the day.

"Good morning," Oski greeted him politely, laying forks beside the plates.  "If you desire coffee, Bersa has some in the kitchen."  He pointed to the modest door set in the end of the right-hand aisle. "Or it will be out shortly, with the rest of breakfast."

Coffee: a dark, hot brew, more bitter than dwarven ale.  "I would prefer small ale.  Can I help you?"  Dírmaen looked down the table at the cool gleam of silver: plates, utensils.  The same as last night.  Was this really their common ware?

The golden-bearded Dwarf gave him a strange, skeptical look.  "You are our guest."

"I do not feel like one," Dírmaen told him plainly.  "It is hard to sit idle."

Oski gazed on him a while longer, then nodded towards the head of the table.  "There is a tray there.  You could set out the bowls, if you wish."

The bowls were silver, too, heavy in the hand; over two dozen of them, each chased with a bold band of many-stranded interlace below the rim.  And cups to match.  Dírmaen was standing at the foot of the table, examining the last cup—he could not find where the design began or ended—when Rekk came up and asked, "Has Oski not filled it for you?"  Save for a helm, he was clad for battle, a coif of fine rings laid back on the shoulders of his hauberk.  A similarly armed Dwarf with a black beard stopped just behind him.

"I was admiring the workmanship," Dírmaen explained, setting the cup on the board.

Rekk smiled, a flash of ivory in his dark beard.  "I must remind Veylin to count the silver before you leave," he said, eyes narrowed.

Dírmaen frowned down on the Dwarf, who, sturdy though he was, came no more than breast-high on him. "Is that a jest?"  Was he supposed to swallow the slur of thief for the privilege of carrying a better spear against the _raugs_ , in addition to the slights he had already borne?  Other Dwarves were coming in, some armed and some not; all he had for support was Halpan, who had ambled up, still sleep-tousled.

The smile vanished.  "We must hope so," Rekk replied dryly, cocking a sardonic brow, and continued on to the head of the table.

Halpan cast a cold glance on him as he passed, following after Rekk.

The morning went on as it begun.  Halpan added disdain to his resentment, companioning the Dwarves and speaking to him only when necessary.  Aniel was deeply troubled by the hostility between them, but there was little opportunity for explanation with the three of them penned together, and naturally the huntsman inclined to the man he had known since they were children rather than the stranger.  Indeed, he was more a stranger to them than some of the Dwarves, whom they had known for near a year.

If the purpose of the Dwarves' kindness had been to turn the hearts of this remnant of the folk of Srathen Brethil from their own kin and kind, they must be content.  Though Dírmaen did not think they would profit much by it.  Withdrawing a ways, feeling his fellow Men's unwelcome, he could hear their shared murmurs of awe whispering off the high roof above.  Charmed as children, they did not look beyond the wonder to the strength that had made this hall and however much more might be delved beyond it, the unplumbed resource and secret schemes of Dwarves.

"Do you intend to whet that blade to a bodkin," a droll dwarven voice asked, "or would you welcome the diversion of _tafl_?"

Looking up from his seat on the floor beside his pack, Dírmaen found Oski standing beside him.  "Of what?" he asked.

" _Tafl_.  You do not know it?"  The golden-bearded Dwarf opened the long box he held, displaying two miniature armies, one of carnelian and the other of jet.  "I have been told it is a Men's game."

"Not by that name."  Watching to see that he did not offend, he reached out and removed one of the black horsemen.  The horse's mane seemed to whip in the wind, and he could see the stipple of hauberk-rings on the rider.  "Yes," he answered, lightly rubbing a finger over the carving.  "I would like to play."  If only to handle the pieces.

It was more like throwboard than chess, but the differences deepened the diversion, and by dinner he had mastered the variations well enough to give Oski a good game.  This was a quieter meal, after breakfast's brusque chaff among those leaving to face the foe; eight fewer places set at the board.  Exactly when Rekk's company had departed, Dírmaen did not know: they had not gone out the way he and the other Men had come in, through the tall arch at the other end of the hall.  There was more than one door to this den.

Dírmaen did not attempt to rejoin his fellows, but left them to converse with Thyrnir over the ham pie and rarebit.  Veylin was deep in discussion with Vitr, and not long after folk began to rise from the board, Arðri, one of the first to leave, returned, bringing three troll-spears to the pair of them.  Veylin gestured to the empty end of the table, and coming down, Arðri laid them out.

The dull grey of the broad-bladed heads set off the fierce gleam of their keen edges, there in the lamplight, against the warm glow of the waxed cherrywood.  Dírmaen leaned over to inspect them more closely.  Few could rival Dwarves in the forging of steel, and the short shafts showed these had been made for their own use; dark stains on the wood, that they had been blooded.  There was no mistaking this for Elvish work: they were beautiful, but it was the austere beauty of pure intent.  These had been made to slay evil things, and every line and curve served that purpose.  Perhaps they were worth the price after all.

"Go on," Veylin invited him, limping down from the head of the table.  "Choose one, and tell us how you would like it shafted."

Though his hands craved to do as the Dwarf bid, Dírmaen shut them and shook his head.  "Let the others choose first," he said.  "I am used to getting good service from whatever weapon comes to hand."  A quirk of balance or line that might trouble the younger Men would vex him not at all.

After a hesitation, Halpan, who had followed Veylin down, stepped over and lifted them one by one, then walked out into the empty center of the hall to try a few thrusts.  Watching him, it was plain he had never speared anything shrewder than a boar; and when Aniel took his turn, though he handled the weapon with the skill to be expected in a good huntsman, it was much the same.

Sliding a glance to where Veylin sat on a bench pushed back against the base of a pillar, smoking, Dírmaen thought the dwarf-lord had rather a disenchanted look.  Meagvir had told him that Veylin was a veteran of the great war between the Dwarves and Orcs.  If so, he knew what battle was like, and that foes rarely charged headlong at one's face.  The _raugs_ had certainly been cunning enough when Arathorn went against them with the sons of Elrond.

Dírmaen picked up the last spear and weighed it in his hands.  It was heavier than any he had held before, with the foreshaft and crossbar forged in one piece with the head; even so, it was butt-heavy, as if to keep the point up.  As it was meant for use against an enemy twice a Dwarf's height, that was entirely sensible.

Striding out onto the empty floor, Dírmaen turned it in his hands, trying to feel what it might be like on a much longer shaft.  On this one, it reversed nimbly for all its weight, but he could not get the extension he wanted on the thrust.  Looking over to where Halpan and Aniel were sorting through a bundle of ash staves for shafts that would suit them, he asked, "Do you have any that are longer?"

"Longer?" Vitr exclaimed, and the carpenter with the red-gold beard, Grani, stared at him.

"Another half a _ranga_."  Those they had brought out were not much taller than Halpan.  Dírmaen held the spear out full-length with one hand on the butt, steady and still.  "I think I can manage it on a shaft so long, but I cannot be sure without trying."

"You would keep your enemy that little further off?" Veylin rumbled.

"If I can."  If the Dwarf would disdain him for that, let him.  All who had battled these things remarked on their length of arm and terrible clutch.

"I will see what we have," Thyrnir offered, and strode briskly off.

They found a pair of stout seasoned ash staves they had meant for a ladder, and the Dwarves stared as he tried them.  They were wieldy; they took his weight without complaint; the reluctant curve in the darker was clean and true.  "This should serve, Master," Dírmaen said, as he handed it over to Vitr.

The ironmaster gazed up the stave, near twice his height.  "This I wish to see," he muttered, somewhere between incredulity and doubt.  Turning to Halpan and Aniel, he told them, "Tomorrow we will return these to you refitted, so you have time to become acquainted before your lives depend on them."

"Thank you, Master."  Halpan bowed his head courteously, passing his spear and chosen shaft to Vitnir.  "I have been wishing this since Rekk first let me handle one, on the verge of the fiend's tarn.  It will be good to stand there again, with such a weapon in my hand."

Fiends.  Now he even called the foe by the Dwarves' name.  Yet at least they had talked him into greater resolution.

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The next morning, most of the Dwarves lingered long over their coffee and pipes after breaking their fast.  Given that they were usually so brisk, getting about their work or onto the road, Dírmaen wondered at this—he began to think he understood them not at all—until the ironmasters appeared, carrying the newly shafted spears.

Halpan was given his first, with a bow, by Vitnir; and Aniel took his next, from the tawny-bearded Skani.  Both were prompt to praise the weapons, pronouncing them excellent almost as soon as they had hefted them, and Veylin said some lordly things in return that put Dírmaen in mind of a retainer's oath-taking and soured his mood anew.  Had they all forgotten that the spears were merely hired, and cost them dear?

Not where he was concerned, it seemed.  Vitr did not bow when he handed him his long spear, and his deep-set eyes held a glint of challenge.  In equal silence, Dírmaen carried it out to where there was room to try it: thrust and swing, reverse and vault, at full reach and with his grip choked up on the wrist-thick shaft.

He walked back to Vitr, feeling the eyes of the Dwarves on him.  Nearly all had risen from their benches and come to stand around the end of the table, where they could see him clear.  They made no comment, murmured or otherwise; their expressions were inscrutable behind beard and pipe.  "A noble weapon," Dírmaen told the ironmaster, "but I have overreached myself.  Might you shorten it by half a span," he held up his spread hand, "and add two ounces to the butt?"

Vitr held up his own hand to gauge the distance, and nodded.  "Certainly.  I will have it to you by dinner."

"I am sorry," Dírmaen apologized, "to put you to the extra work."

"Nonsense," Vitr dismissed, with a scowl and shake of his head, then clouted his arm.  "I will not grudge such a trifle to make a better bane of our foes."

The Ranger looked down at where the Dwarf had struck him, then around at all those sober faces with their intent eyes.  No, they did not trust him, and perhaps even disliked him; yet they knew how to value things.  A better bane of their foes was apparently worth much, that they should bring him into their secret stronghold and set such a terrible weapon in his hands.  "A trifle?" he echoed, and looked up the long shaft, high over even his Dúnedain head.  "Ah, but you consider this—" Dírmaen cast his glance about "—a small place.  Let us hope your peculiar notions of size do not apply, when we make short work of the _raugs_ in Srathen Brethil!"

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Notes

**Pace** : Dírmaen is using the _ranga_ , or Númenorean yard (38 inches).

**Coffee** ( _Coffea arabica_ ): some of Thorin's companions call for coffee when they first visit Bilbo in _The Hobbit_.  This tropical shrub could not grow in the Shire, and it seems likely that both coffee and the habit of drinking it reached the Shire through trade with the Dwarves.  That they had some connection to the part of the world where coffee originated can be seen in linguistic similarities between Khuzdul and the Semitic languages, and the Egyptian dwarf-god Bes.

**Bodkin** : a slender, pointed weapon such as a stiletto, or a similarly shaped tool for making holes in cloth.

**_Tafl_** : this is not a Khuzdul word, but Old Norse—the same language from which Tolkien took the names of the Dwarves.  Technically, this is _hnefa-tafl_ ("King's Table"), a [game of strategy](http://www.gamesmuseum.uwaterloo.ca/VirtualExhibits/Vikings/Tafl/viking/overhead.jpg) where one side attacks, the other defends the king that tries to escape the board.  That it is in origin a Mannish game is clear from the objective: no Dwarf would consider escape from a defended stronghold a victory.  Many thanks to Gwynnyd for drawing my attention to the many different sorts of _tafl_!

**Throwboard** ( _tawlbyund_ or _tawl bwrdd_ ): a Welsh _tafl_ game.

**Carnelian** : a reddish variety of chalcedony, a semi-precious stone well suited for fine carving.  Traditionally chessmen were red and black.

**Rarebit** : a savoury dish, consisting of melted cheese, mixed with seasonings such as mustard and ale, served on toast.

**"the stave, near twice his height"** : while thrusting spears were usually around the height of the men who used them, Dírmaen is having them shaft this as if it were a pike, the pole arm preferred against cavalry.  These could reach lengths of twelve feet (more than a _ranga_ longer still) among Scottish troops during the War of Independence.  Given that there have been no battles in Eriador involving massed cavalry since the fall of the North Kingdom, this suggests Dírmaen has seen service in the South . . . or has a taste for obscure weapons.


	15. Undermining the Enemy

Constmimus batuimus.                                      _We build, we fight._

\--motto, United States Navy Construction Battalion ("Seabees")

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Veylin leaned heavily on his troll-spear and looked down the ridge—garnet heather and copper bracken amid glinting faces of schist—into Srathen Brethil.  This is not how he had imagined arriving, when he and Saelon's brother had taken leave of each other at White Cliffs this time last year.  Yet at least he had reached it on his own feet, which was more than he would have hoped for then.  The old pony that had borne him as far as the dwarf-house they had set loose last night.  The Ranger had insisted on leading it back to the last glen, where there was a thicket of rowans and better pasture, so that they must hold off on sealing the door until he came loping up in the louring dusk.

A foolish risk, for a beast that the fiends would probably devour before they could bring doom on them.  Then he remembered Saelon's faith in the red-berried little trees and huffed.  Well, it would be a good thing if he did not have to walk all the way back to Gunduzahar.  Three leagues felt near his leg's limit, even with the brace Thyrnir had made him.  He would have been a sorry drag on the march if the others had not been so heavily burdened, or the eyes of the Ranger less often turned his way.

Yet he had not disgraced himself, and his heart burned with savage pride, confident now that if the leg was granted but a little rest, it would bear him creditably against the fiends.  For the moment, none could fault him for wishing to pause here a while and survey the field of battle from on high.

Halpan had been reluctant to speak of the ill-fated Dúnedain foray, but with patience they had drawn the tale from him, the better to understand what they would face.  Dírmaen had spoken truly, the night of the feast, when he had rebuked the youngster for taking too much guilt to himself: he had not been craven nor inept, merely callow.  The shame for Halpan's part in the death of their Chieftain lay squarely on the Man himself, for taking one not yet hardened against such dire foes . . . and he had paid.

The corrie was narrow and, after the first fall of slope, shallow; its throat narrower still, where an ancient rockslip spilled the rubble that had given the Dúnedain and Half-Elven cover to wait and watch.  Veylin scowled at the many boulders scattered about, around the larger of which the fiends might play at tig with them.  The creatures were said to be quick, unlike trolls, and with his leg as it was, even a modest stone was likely to be an obstacle rather than a step nearer their necks.

And there, nestled in the land's palm, the lone golden-leaved aspen beside, was the tarn, its surface a mirror for the fair, cloud-speckled sky, giving no hint of the evil beneath.  A half-dozen figures toiled on the slope just below.

"Ai!" came a great-voiced hail from below, and Veylin grinned to see Rekk perched on one of the boulders, flourishing a mattock.  "Come down, you sluggards, and make yourselves useful!"

When they had picked their way through the scree, his companions gladly shed their bulging packs by the open door of the scrape before finding seats on earth or stone.  Their shelter was cut back into a scarp along the western wall, where it would catch the first sun over the encircling ridge.  Thyrnir and Arðri broke out sausages and waybread, and carried them around; Ingi came up from the workings with waterskins.

"Where is this from?" Vitr asked, eyeing the skin.

"The beck, a troublesome way below," Rekk's prentice assured him, with a grim smile.  "We do not drink from the tarn."

"What is all this?" Bersi asked, pointing with his knife to gouges and dunts on the stone around the door, the fresh mica flashing in the sun.  "Do not tell me you were so careless with your picks."

"No."  Rekk smiled even more grimly.  "The fiends have sniffed us out already.  They made a determined effort to reach us last night, but to no avail.  I am glad we delved deep; this schist is soft enough that they might whittle it away, over time.  We will not give them that, however—now that you are here, the work will go faster.  Two days more, I think."

As the rest of Rekk's company joined them, breaking for a midday bite, Veylin asked, "Where is Oddi?"  The black-bearded mason was not to be seen.

"Away.  Repairs to the Frogmorton mill, for the harvest."  Rekk shook his head.  "He will tear his beard when he returns and discovers he missed his chance."

Or, Veylin reflected, regarding the bruised and runneled stone dourly as he ate, he would be left to seek vengeance for them all, if this proved folly.

As soon as folk had finished, Nordri led them back to the cut, newcomers as well as his work crew.  "Time enough to rest this evening," he briskly told Arðri, who was inclined to grumble after the morning's weary march.  "The sooner done, the sooner we can slay these things and get back to our proper work."  Having spent the short meal consulting with Rekk, Grani took Thyrnir and Halpan away to discuss where they might get timber; Aniel and the Ranger set out to scout the neighborhood for such news of their foes as tracks might give.

Rekk lingered, pulling out his pipe and coming over to sit on a boulder by Veylin, who had stretched his game leg out on the sun-warmed stone.  "So," he asked, once smoke was rising, "have the Men settled?"

"As much as they ever will."  Veylin looked over to where Halpan was gesturing at the aspen; Grani looked dubious.  "Aniel has never been less than keen, and Halpan has grown more so as we drew nearer.  Let us hope he does not cool again, in this pause before blows."

"What of the Man of the Star?"  Rekk turned a disbelieving eye on the mighty spear, too unwieldy for scouting and so left behind, settled carefully on a narrow ledge of stone.  "I had not thought him pretentious.  Does he think we hunt dragons?"

Veylin shook his head, still marveling.  "It is not vanity: he can handle it, and handle it well.  Given what the Men say of the fiends, who would not keep them as far off as he might?" Reluctantly he admitted, "We will be glad to have him, I think."

Rekk grunted and sat a while in thought.  "And your knee?" he finally ventured.

"Well enough."  Kneading the bone-deep pain, Veylin hungered to slay the things that had crippled him so.  "A little rest, and it will be better still."

"Good."  Still the waterwright seemed in no hurry to return to his work.  It was some minutes more before he asked, "Did you see no one on your way?"

Veylin considered him curiously.  "Who should I have seen, in these fiend-haunted lands?"

"Partalan."

"Him!"

"Yes, we met with him our first day out."

"What did he want?"  Veylin frowned.  "Since I have not seen him, I presume you sent him on his way."

Rekk observed, with a very slight smile, "He most earnestly desired to speak with you."

"He waited overlong."

"So I took pleasure in telling him."

Veylin gave a short chuff of contempt.  That would have been good to see.  "I wonder that he dared ask.  What did he offer for pardon?"

"Nothing."

"The Man is mad."

"In truth," Rekk allowed, "it seemed desperation."  When Veylin regarded him with raised brows, impatient with this riddling talk, he added, "Saelon has dismissed him."

"What did he expect?"  A pity he had missed that, too. Having scathed the Half-Elven, Saelon would not have stinted on one who claimed to serve her.  And she had been so very bitter when they parted, which troubled Veylin much.  "Does he think she will take him back if I pardon him?"

"Those were not her conditions," Rekk answered, with relish.

"What were her conditions?"

"He must bring her the head of a fiend on a troll-spear, to prove his love of his slain lord."

A cruel charge, whether Partalan was mad enough to attempt it or no.  Truly, Saelon must believe it was the Man's words that drove him to this, and that it would be his death.  Veylin shook his head in wonder and disbelief.  Yet at the least, the swordsman could no longer think her weak-willed—not if he would treat with the Dwarf he had offended rather than his lady.

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As the sun kissed the ridgetop, Dírmaen and Aniel climbed back up to the corrie.  The way was not very steep, but they had walked many leagues that day, and even the Ranger was weary.  They had spent the afternoon traipsing the upper reaches of the glen, seeking some sign that the _raugs_ had shifted their lair, but though their cursed spoor crisscrossed the land, nowhere was the water's edge so trodden as about the tarn.

"Those will be very welcome," Bersi observed.

Aniel started and almost dropped the grouse he carried; apparently he had not taken notice of the Dwarf sitting watch amid the tumbled rocks, the steel of his helm and mail not unlike the grey of the stone.  Yet he recovered quickly.  "Fowl looks to be all we can hope for, save what we carried," the huntsman sighed, hoisting the double brace of birds.  With near a score to feed, they would be little more than a bite of fresh meat to relieve the iron rations carried in on their backs.  "There is little else afoot in the glen."

Rising from his seat, the coppersmith scowled at the pool of still water.  "They have scoured the land so bare?  Why have they not moved on, to where there is better hunting?"

Dírmaen shrugged.  The same question troubled him.  "Why did they not flee after the Chieftain's attack slew two of them?"

"You are sure they have not?"  Bersi cocked his head, glancing up at him.  "It would be vexing—" his beard twitched, beside his mouth "—to go to all this labor, and find the tarn holds naught but water."

"They are there," Dírmaen assured him gravely.  "The tracks are fresh.  Or do you doubt Rekk's explanation of the battered stone about the door?"

"No.  Come," he said, with a glance at the darkening sky.  "We should be getting to shelter."

Those who had been delving were shouldering their tools as they came abreast of them.  Dírmaen considered their work: for near two-score paces, the earth had been cast aside and a narrow channel cut down into the rock beneath.  They had made considerable progress since midday, but it was well over a hundred paces to the uptilted lip of the corrie, and they would have to cut down further still as they approached it.  Even for so many Dwarves, it seemed a prodigious labor, the more so as they would not put off their mail, despite assurances that the _raugs_ only walked by night.

Aside from the watchman, the only Dwarf not toiling mightily was Veylin, and even he was not idle, having taken the cooking in hand.  Dírmaen marveled that his leg had borne him so far that morning, and over such rugged ground.  His leg, or sheer cussedness: he had kept a close watch on Veylin during their march, and the stony set of the Dwarf's face had revealed his pain as much as hidden it.  Yet none of the other Dwarves took notice of his lameness, so far as the Ranger could tell; they neither encouraged him nor disparaged him for not bearing his share of their heavy burdens.  Perhaps they did not wish to rouse the temper Dírmaen had felt by the tower at Habad-e-Mindon.

An afternoon's rest, however, had restored the joviality that was the dwarf-lord's ordinary temper.  "Carry these pots in, Arðri," Veylin told his prentice when they reached the dooryard, and smiled at Aniel's handful of birds.  "What is this?" he asked.  "Dainties for tomorrow's dinner?"

The huntsman's reply was interrupted by a loud exclamation of pain, and Halpan came crawling out of the low doorway in the scarp, rubbing his head.  "Surely you could have made it a little larger," he complained.  "Must we all squeeze in there?"

"We did make it larger," Rekk assured him complacently, "knowing you long-legged folk would be joining us.  It was delved for use, not comfort—why should we have spared more time from the real work?  Once we are inside, eat and go to sleep, and you will not feel so straitened."

Dírmaen ducked his head in, to see what awaited them and how he might maneuver his spear in.  It certainly could not be left outside, if the _raugs_ besieged them by night.  His fear, that it would be too long to fit, proved unfounded.  Though only a single chamber, unlike the dwarf-house where they had spent the previous night under cover, it was a good seven paces deep and three broad.  Yet it was only when he crawled in to set his spear along the wall that he found how low the roof was.  Save for an area around the end of the passage, he doubted even the Dwarves could stand upright; sitting, there was little space between his head and stone.

When fifteen Dwarves and three Men had been fitted in, it was snug indeed.  With the food and gear stacked tidily by the entrance and their blankets pushed back against the walls, there was room enough for them to sit around the larger kettle.  The other, porridge for breakfast, had been set covered in the corner, so they would waste no daylight which could further the work.  Thyrnir knelt in the center, serving the stew into battered tin bowls.

It was not a meal to praise, but Dírmaen had eaten many a worse in the Wild, and after the bowls had been scraped clean and set aside, Nordri produced a skin of their dark, bitter ale, which was passed around in equal fellowship.  Most of the Dwarves continued to keenly discuss their work, talk that Dírmaen little understood—the grain of the schist, the degree of fall of the channel, the force of the water—when a dull, heavy blow resonated through the stone and struck everyone into momentary silence.

"What was that?" Aniel whispered from where he had just stretched out at the far end, trying to make a tolerable bed with no more than a blanket between him and the unyielding floor.

The Dwarves had gone very still, listening.

Another hammerblow fell without.  And another.

"The fiends, knocking at the door," Rekk rumbled.  Scooping up the nearly empty skin, he tossed it to the huntsman.  "Do not fear.  They beat so most of last night, and you saw how little it profited them."

Yet Dírmaen thought not all of the Dwarves looked easy.

"How do you know they cannot break in?" Halpan wanted to know, appearing pale and strained in the lamplight.

Beside him, Nordri chuckled and reached up to clap his shoulder.  "The stone between us is near as thick as you are tall, save the passage.  You have seen these things clear—could they fit through that narrow way?"

"The smaller ones might."

"How large are they?" Gamal asked, shaking out his blanket.  A past prentice of Nordri, he had been part of the advance party that cut this refuge.

Halpan took a deep breath, considering.  "Man-high, though broader in the shoulder."

Veylin leaned back against the outer wall, disregarding the shudder of the stone.  "How do you think you would fare, crawling in here, with Dwarven axes waiting to greet you?"

Dírmaen gazed towards the door.  "Is that why the roof is higher there?"

"Aye, to give us room to swing."  Rekk regarded him steadily.  "You have had some experience of war, it seems.  Have you fought creatures such as this?"

Shaking his head, Dírmaen admitted, "Nothing worse than Orcs and wargs."

"They are evil enough," Vitnir muttered.

"Do you remember that night," Rekk asked Veylin, a glint in his eye, "the warg got into our scrape on Udushinbar?"

The dwarf-lord chuffed and rolled his eyes.  "How could I forget?  Thekk nearly brained Frati with his backswing."

"He feared returning home without you more than the warg," Rekk explained, grinning.  "It took you a week to get the slaver out of your beard."

Veylin stroked his thick russet whiskers.  "Better it chew on this than my neck.  I still say I throttled the beast."

"How did it get into the scrape?" Thiolf, Nordri's current prentice, asked with a frown.

"A foolish quarrel," Veylin sighed.  "There were two Longbeards among us, and one was angered by what he considered disrespect of Durin's Line.  He stepped out to cool his temper, and his brother insisted we leave the door open for him."

"That was madness," Nordri declared, fixing Rekk with a severe look as he stretched out on his blanket.

Rekk shrugged.  "It seemed less perilous than axes drawn among us."

Dírmaen shook his head; how often vexation among comrades offered opportunity to the enemy.  How much worse it must be, penned tight together under stone . . . although perhaps that did not oppress Dwarves.  Already he craved the open air as he would thirst at the end of a long day's march.

"How do Men hunt wargs?" Thyrnir asked.

"With bows, at a distance," Dírmaen replied, when even his fellow Men looked to him, "if we can.  With spears, if we must."

Arðri gave him a baffled look.  "Do you fear to come near your foes?"

The Dwarves Dírmaen suspected were the elders among them—Veylin and Rekk, Nordri and Grani and Bersi—frowned at him, presumably for not taking the point about avoiding conflict among allies.  On his other side, Halpan and Aniel were scowling as well, touched in their pride.

"We are not so sturdy as Dwarves," Dírmaen said simply.  "Nor so close."

After a pause long enough to lift a querulous brow, Veylin burst out in a guffaw, then sniffed, regarding him with narrowed eyes.  Many of the others seemed not to have grasped his double meaning, though Bersi was shaking his head and muttering darkly about puns.  "I do not know," the dwarf-lord replied.  "You Men of the Star seem near as profound."

One double-edged compliment for another.  Dírmaen was considering what answer might be both creditable and safe when Nyr said sharply, "The hammering has ceased."

For a long time they sat or laid silent, listening for the return of that pounding malice.  One by one, they gave over waiting, surrendering to their weariness despite the ominous peace without, and eventually Rekk put out one lamp and turned down the other, dimming the light to aid already uneasy sleep.  Yet so long as Dírmaen remained awake, he could see Veylin still sitting with his back to the outer wall, deep-set eyes gleaming in the gloom as he stroked his axe helve.

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"Well," Rekk growled, "they are not dumb beasts."

Nordri shook his head.  "A mess, but what does it gain them?  If anything, they have widened the outfall with their battering.  We will have to pry the boulders out, but that can wait until we are ready to breach the dam."

Standing over the workings, Veylin prodded one of the rocks wedged into what had been a neatly cut channel with the toe of his boot.  Solid.  He calculated how much force it must have taken to lodge it so, and his grip tightened on the troll-spear that served him as stick.  Mail would blunt fang and talon, but was little defense against such brute strength.  Glancing over to where the Ranger and Aniel stood by the tarn, puzzling out the fiend's spoor, he was glad the Men were with them, for those longer spears might well settle the balance in their favor.

And who could remain dour, seeing Craec perched on Dírmaen's shoulder, head cocked at the exact angle as the Man's, as if he studied the tracks with equal intent?  The young raven, Thekk's pet, continually irked Rekk with his mischief and faltering tongue.  The Ranger, who seemed to read beasts as Dwarves read stone, still marveled that Craec spoke at all, and always had a tidbit to spare.  Little wonder that the bird was spending more time in his company.

"I had hoped to start on the dam today," Rekk grumbled, stooping to pick up a stone.  After giving it a cursory glance, he slung it into the tarn, as he might have slapped a pony that angered him.  "What is the point of bringing in timber, if they can do this to stone?"

Veylin found a convenient boulder and sat down, to ease his stiff leg.  "Why is the dam so important?"  The explanation might take some time.

"We must undercut the bed of the tarn, if it is to drain quickly," the waterwright declared.  "I do not know the shape of the bed, nor how deep it is—though it must be quite deep, to house so many fiends, and they so large.  We are on stone, not earth: the water will not carve its own channel as it falls."  He tugged at his plaited beard; Veylin guessed he would have to rebraid it by midday, if he kept worrying at it.  So he had done during the war against the Orcs, when things grew uncertain.  Still, it was not so bad a sign as if he stopped.  "The dam would let us cut further into the bed of the tarn, without flooding the works.  I will have to reconsider," he rumbled, frowning, and looked over at Nordri.  "The rest of you can keep cutting the outfall.  That will not change no matter what they do."

There was more than enough delving there to keep everyone's hands busy.  Veylin took the camp duties to himself again, though they were usually a prentice's chore: it was better that the youngsters, who had seen little of battle, tired themselves to sleep better.  His nights would be broken in any case, between brooding over how best to fight the fiends and the pain of his leg, and if he sometimes nodded in the warmth of the sun beside the fire, no one was near to see.  The Men roamed the glen below seeking sign that their foes had retreated to the headwaters of the river, and returned with news that all the traps Aniel had set the afternoon before had been robbed, but brought half a cloakful of apples from the trees at an abandoned steading by way of compensation, as well as water and wood.

They were best employed so, though they might have sat guard and spared another Dwarf for the delving.  But the only thing that might come by day that concerned Veylin was Partalan, and he did not think they would warn him of such an arrival as he would wish.

In the end, Rekk put off deciding about the dam until they saw what ruin might be accomplished that night, and so they drew the channel over a hundred paces nearer the break in the slope that day.  Even without the labor of a dam, it looked to take more than a day just for the remainder of the outfall, and the prospect of another night under threat drew a gloom over them all at the end of the weary day.

The fiends beat at the door longer that night, and they had a bad moment in the morning, when the door stuck hardly half a span open.  A good push by the three strongest of them, all who could fit into the passage, forced it far enough that Thyrnir could slip out.  The door was not damaged, as feared; there was only a boulder of some hundredweights set before it as a stop.  Ingi and Thiolf, in the high spirits of relief and absurdity—few of them could resist laughing at Aniel's momentary panic when he thought they were trapped, though Nordri kindly explained one could not trap Dwarves so, not when they had their tools to hand—challenged each other to a stonecutting race.  Rekk made a dry comment about the masons' technique, and it was quickly arranged that Nordri and his followers would cut up from the lip while Rekk and the rest cut down, six to a side, with Bersi, who had no kin among them, as judge.

As they divided up the tools, Nyrað tossed a spade to the huntsman, who caught it handily despite his surprise.  "We claim Aniel for our team."

"I do not know what to do," he objected.  "I was too taken up with hunting to help you delve our hall."

"You can dig, can you not?" Thiolf asked, grinning.

Rekk eyed the two Dúnedain.  "Halpan for us," he declared.

"Not Dírmaen?" Grani asked.  As the day's guard, he was the nearest thing to a spectator.

The waterwright snorted, and cast a glance at the Ranger.  "He would want a spade as tall as himself, I am sure.  And there is grey in his hair."

Halpan laughed at Dírmaen's ruffled expression as his elder checked his dark mane for signs of silver, and picked up another spade.  "If Aniel will join you, I suppose I must, to keep things even.  Though a cottar may shovel better than a Dúnadan!"

When they had trooped off to the workings, chaffing each other, Dírmaen bent to collect the empty waterskins.  "That was well done," he said.

Veylin inclined his head and began gathering their small store of wood, which the fiends had strewn about.  "Rekk has always been good at rousing tempers," he replied.  "He is at his best in time of war, when there is a clear foe."

"Clear."  Straightening, the Ranger stared at the tarn.  "If daylight is not enough, how should we attack them?"

"You say there are four; we have four spears.  If we can pin them, axes will do the rest."

The Ranger looked at the spear in Veylin's hand, only half the height of his, and walked away.

He did not understand.  None of the Men, not even Saelon, did.  They had never seen Dwarves at war.  Yet if the Man of the Star would but turn his long-sighted eyes to the slope below, he might see the foundation of their confidence, for the chafing impatience of the youths had struck fire in their elders.  When Veylin took the midday meal down to them, Rekk and Nordri were urging their crews as if they sought the last vein of mithril and the delvers scorned to stop, so evenly matched that any slacking might decide the race.  Even Halpan and Aniel had caught the fever of pride; though, seeing Halpan reel briefly when straightening up from his work, Veylin pulled the two Men out for a breath and a bite.  They resented being singled out, but he would not have them destroy themselves in a vain attempt to match Dwarves—they must be fit for battle next day.

His own folk did not require such cosseting: so long as there was fire in their hearts, they plied their picks and mattocks as if the stone was the flesh of their foes.  Even the rain that blew in as the shadows lengthened did not douse their ardor—though the same could not be said for the flames under the stewpot.  Yet when they finally strutted in, beards dripping and gambesons soaked through, Veylin was pleased to feed their ravening appetites from kettles carefully banked with hot stones and pass around a celebratory skin of mead.  For even Rekk and his crew, who had lost by little more than a pace, were triumphant.

The outfall was complete.  If the fiends did not crack their refuge tonight, they would strip them of theirs on the morrow.

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Notes

**Tig** : the game also known as tag.

  **Scree** : [loose stone on a slope](http://confluence.org/us/wa/n47w121/pic2.jpg) or at the base of one.

  **Mica** : soft silicate minerals that form [thin, easily separated plates or flakes](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b9/Mica-from-alstead.jpg), with a characteristic pearly shine.

  **Wargs** : these are bookverse wargs (which are evil wolves), not movieverse wargs (which look more like giant hyenas).

  **Pace** : if the measurements do not always seem to match up, remember that the Men are reckoning in _rangar_ (a _ranga_ is approximately 38 inches), while the Dwarves are reckoning in a unit more proportional to their height (I have estimated a dwarven pace as approximately 22 inches).


	16. Monsters of the Mere

_Weapons are unfortunate instruments.  Heaven's Way hates them.  Using them when there is no other choice--that is Heaven's Way_.

\-- _Heiho Kaden Sho_ ("Family-Transmitted Book of Swordsmanship")

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"So, what of the dam?" Veylin asked, his gaze keen as he surveyed the head of the cut.  Their labors yesterday notwithstanding, the Dwarves were brisk this morning, even lively.  Ingi chafed his hands against the frosty nip in the air or in anticipation, waiting beside Hani as the smith freshened the edge of his mattock; Vitr and Vitnir sang a martial air as they levered up a boulder wedged deeply in the channel.

Dírmaen cast a jaded eye on them.  He had slept poorly, ears pricked for an assault that never came—or, if it had, there was no hearing it over the hearty snores resonating within the stony walls of their refuge.  Halpan, who lay beside him, had been louder than any of the Dwarves; now the younger Dúnadan stood by Rekk, shivering within the damp leather of his jerkin, dull with fatigue.  Aniel, who had trudged stiffly off to refill the waterskins not long before, was little better.

Rekk shook his head in brusque dismissal.  "What of it?  It will take less time to cut through into the bed as the water falls.  It is not," he snorted, rubbing an orange smear of rust from the head of his pick with his thumb, "as if we will get much wetter."

"How long will it take to drain?" Dírmaen asked.  While a few hours' grace would be welcome, if only to allow his fellow Men to regain their wits and some limberness, he did not wish the respite to drag on until near sunset.  Whatever advantage the light might give them, he would take.

"There is no telling."  The waterwright shrugged.  "How deep do the evil things lie?"

Deep.  The water rushed down the way they had cut it in a frothing freshet, scouring the glimmering rock clean; the rim of brown muck about the tarn grew wider, then dropped off in a series of ragged ledges.  Rekk and his crew cursed the footing as they chased the retreating shore into the mud and down onto those uneven steps, where even hobnails and pick points slipped, yet they did not slacken, glowering at the ground they clove as if they resented the shelter it gave their enemies.  Those who did not delve found seats nearby and put a final whet on their axes, or satisfied themselves with the strapping of their helms.

Standing aside, Dírmaen found that they reminded him of nothing so much as a circle of steel-grey wolves, waiting with burning-eyed patience for the stag at bay in their midst to stagger.  Though their foes were also his, that intense enmity made him uneasy, and he withdrew to a clump of broom that broke the chill wind.

The beat of black wings brought Craec to him, a carrion bird before the slaughter.  "Meat?" the raven asked shamelessly, once he had settled his glossy feathers.

Dírmaen returned Craec's gaze.  "Is anything abroad?" he asked.

The bird snapped his beak twice, as if vexed.  "Horse," he husked.

"Where?"

A beady black eye peered up at him.  "North.  Meat?"

Reaching into his pouch, he gave Craec a shred of tough salt beef.  After the raven had bolted it, Dírmaen tried, "Pony?"

Craec considered, gave a deep click, then muttered "Oun," and creaked.  Twice more he tried, but came no closer to the word.  Shaking his head, he repeated, "Horse."

For his effort, Dírmaen gave him more beef.  Perhaps, occupied with them, the fiends had not yet discovered the old pony.

A shout and what sounded like oaths turned his head back towards the tarn, as Craec crouched and took to the air.  Those waiting had risen and drawn up to the edge, looking down into the pit—yet none raised their weapons.  Was this it?  Had the fiends proved to be trolls after all, and the sun left them no more to do, cheating the Dwarves of their battle?

There was no need to shove forward when he joined them, for they were too short to block his view.  Which was as well, for they seemed struck to stone themselves.  Gazing down over their gleaming helms, Dírmaen saw not monstrous writhen shapes in muddy slop, but a gaping mouth half-revealed by the falling water on the far side of the tarn.  A cavern.

The sun, high overhead, would not do their killing for them.

They held a hasty council of war over their midday meal, waybread and salt beef sliced thin enough for teeth to do something.  "And now?" Nyr muttered, passing on the waterskin.

"We go in after them, surely," Aniel declared.  Seeing a way to their foes, he was eager as one of his hounds, baffled by the Dwarves' turn to coldness.

"Are you mad?" Bersi exclaimed, speaking what was on all his folk's faces.

Halpan frowned thoughtfully at the coppersmith.  "Why would it be madness?"

"To walk blindly into their lair?" Veylin growled.  This new frustration had him on the edge of wrath.  "Where they know the turnings and grots, and we do not?"

"Ah," Halpan murmured in understanding.

"Either we must go in, or they must come out," Dírmaen said.  "I doubt they will do that under the sun."

"Is this to be a siege?" Grani wondered.  "We did not bring supplies for many more days."

"Surely they have less," Aniel protested, "with the land so empty that they must take hares from my traps."

Veylin looked to Rekk.  "Might we bait them out?"

"With what?" the waterwright scoffed, hefting a slab of wooden beef.  "This?"

Dírmaen found the dwarf-lord's hot russet eyes on him.  "Might that pony still be in the glen with the rowans?"

"You think that will bring them out into the daylight?"

"No."  Veylin's fists were knotted on his spear shaft.  "But it may bring them out despite us."

Nordri stroked his brown-gold beard.  "That is a good thought.  We could build some hides from the stone at hand, and cut them off from retreat."

"Why bother?" Gamal asked.  "From what I hear, they are not shy."

Bersi shook his head.  "And have them go for the nearest, perhaps carry them to their hole?"

"You would fight them in the dark?"  Dírmaen sighed.  All that labor, spent for an advantage that eluded them.

"Hardly the dark," Vitr scoffed.  "There will be moon enough."

"As much as we had last month," Halpan agreed.

_When your quarry escaped you_ , Dírmaen did not say.  Rising, he declared, "If you want the beast by sunset, I must go.  It may have strayed far."  Then he remembered the raven.  "Where is Craec?"  The bird could lead him straight to the pony.

Rekk glanced up into the aspen and around the top of the scarps, before giving a piercing whistle.  "Capricious bird," he grumbled, as time passed.  "Always shirking when he might be useful."

"I cannot wait," the Ranger said.  "Send him after me, if he comes."

"Whether you find it or not," Veylin told him, "return by dark.  If they do not require baiting, we will need your spear."

Mindful of the peril and his spear being too heavy for the speed required, Dírmaen did not need the warning.  It was a pleasant day to lope over the land, bright and cool; if not for the ominous lack of beasts, the run would have soothed his cramped temper.  Craec did not come; by good fortune, the old pony was where he had left him, grazing peaceably, and, having had two days' rest, was not too unwilling to jog—downhill, at least.

Aniel was watching from the ridgetop, gilded by the low rays of the sun, and came down to meet them, spear in hand and an admiring smile on his broad face.  "I will take him the rest of the way," he offered, as the pony hung back on the face of the steep slope.  "You will want a bite and a rest, I am sure.  You must have run much of the way!"

"That would be very welcome," Dírmaen confessed.  "Much of the way there, but not much back—this old fellow was not so eager."

The huntsman scruffed the pony's shaggy mane.  "Ah, well—at least Veylin did not bring a younger beast.  It will be hard enough putting this one down."

A final check of his spear, as he champed dutifully on a handful of dull waybread, spared him that sight.  By the time he walked down to the tarn in the twilight, the long weapon balanced on his shoulders, the beast was dead and gutted, the offal spread to tempt the _raugs_ beyond caution.  Several low, untidy heaps of rubble surrounded the knacker's yard at a judicious distance.  Halpan stood at the southern one, talking with Thyrnir; Vitnir and Ingi were with them.  Aniel gave him a sketchy salute with his spear as he passed the western pile, where Nordri and his sons were stationed, with Thiolf.

Nearest the gaping gullet of the drowned cavern, on the north, Veylin was speaking with Rekk; the dwarf-lord's friend Bersi waited with Vitr and Arðri.  Only the eastern hide had no spear, so Dírmaen went to join the Dwarves there: Grani and his son Gamal, and Haki.  "Here you are!" Grani greeted him heartily.  "Not too weary from your errand, I trust."

Gazing at the stones, which came no higher than his waist, Dírmaen wondered how he and his spear were supposed to be concealed behind them.  "No," he assured the carpenter.  "Although I hope I need not chase the fiends far."

Hani chuckled.  "If your aim is good, you should not!"

"Hold one for us for a few strokes, and we will make sure it cannot run," Gamal promised, giving his axe bit a final appraising glance.

Dírmaen nodded.  He had not thought of hamstringing the creatures, but Dwarves being so short, it must be a common stratagem for them.  Once felled, they could slay the creatures at leisure, or—should even that prove too perilous—leave them to the mercy of the sunrise.

"I see you have found your post," Rekk said approvingly, coming over to join them.  "You have your waterskin?" he asked Grani.  Gamal pointed to it, tucked amid the stones.  "Stay hid," Rekk went on, in a tone of reminder, "until all the fiends are past you, unless Veylin or I give the signal.  Then go for the nearest, and aid others as you can.  Do not," he rumbled, casting his dark gaze on Dírmaen, "let them back past you."

"Do not fear."  Grani glanced sidelong at the Ranger, a smile quirking his beard.  "If naught else, we can trip them with his long pole."

Among Men, they would have grown ribald after such an opening; yet the Dwarves merely grinned, shifting their axes in their hands.  What could one do, when your companions made you the butt of a joke, except smile to show you took it in good humor?  In truth, this was mild compared to the humor of some of his fellow Rangers.  "A pity you did not take it into account when you heaped up these stones," Dírmaen returned.  "Am I to lie down with it?"

Hani was struck by a fit of coughing, which he struggled to stifle as Rekk, smirking, growled, "Shush!  Do you want to fright the fiends?"  Gamal and Grani presented suspectly bland faces to Dírmaen's closer inspection.  "If you must," Grani answered, with a shrug, "you must."

Rekk sniffed, seeming to strive for sobriety, and clapped the carpenter on the shoulder.  "Good hunting," he wished them, and strode to join the group with Halpan.

Dírmaen lay so he faced the tarn.  The ground for the hide had been cunningly chosen to give a good view of the fiends' lair; propped on his elbows, he could see most of its gaping maw.  It grew harder to make out as the dusk thickened, no more than a darker blackness against benighted stone.

And so they waited.  The Dwarves were still as the rocks they hunkered behind, and the wind took even the soft sound of their breathing away.  Despite the tension and the chill, Dírmaen struggled not to fall into a doze.  Perhaps he did, for his head jerked as someone bumped his ribs with the toe of their boot.

There was a shape within the darkness of the cavern's mouth, and a low thrum that might have been a growl as it peered around at the bare stone and drying muck.  Hesitantly, it moved a little further out.

It was one of the big ones.  Night shadows made its shape unclear: not unlike a troll, though leaner.  The moonlight glistened pallidly on it, as if it were slick with wet or slime.  A brighter flash came as it bared its tushes in a horrible snarl, yet it slowly crept from the tarn and onto the flat, snuffing the air and drawing itself upright every few paces, giving marrow-chilling growls as if it wished to daunt the foes it could smell but not see.

When it came within reach of the pony carcass, it seized a hock and dragged it nearer, then tore off a hind quarter as a Man might have taken the wing from a roasted fowl.  Ravenously, it began to devour the beast's flesh.

At the crack of bone, two smaller shapes bounded from the tarn's bed, swarming up the steep, muddy slope, quick and lithe.  Snapping and snarling, they fell to squabbling, and the Man-sized one drove the little one from the broken carcass to the trampled offal, as it gave a screeching squeal of protest.  Little—it was near Dwarf-sized.  Was this Craec's "nestling"?  And where was the fourth?

It came at last, and there was something odd about it, even in the mirk: a different shape, a different gait.  Only after it had clumsily clambered to the tarn's edge and raised itself upright to glare suspiciously about did the reason show clear.

A female, with a great, gravid belly, its limbs so gaunt it must be near starving.  When it moved towards the others, Dírmaen saw it was halt.  Was this the fiend that had eluded Halpan and slain Arathorn, wounded as it fled?  The one hunched over the carcass, somewhat larger, rumbled threateningly around the forequarter it was now mauling.  The _raug_ -dam stood tall to snarl back, ropy arms raised on high.

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The thrawn thing had only a single ragged-taloned hand—its right arm ended in an ugly knob of proud flesh.  Veylin stared at the dark marks of old axe-blows on its leaden hide and, as if catching a glimpse of a secret hoard through a cracked door, saw the fiend whole and hale, rending Thekk limb from limb.  Blood—all was blood, encrimsoned.  Bounding forward, he roared, " _Baruk Khazâd!  Khazâd ai-mênu!_ "

Giving a grating cry, it whirled to flee; heedless of his leg, he followed.  He would have it.  He must have it.  What was the pain, beside vengeance on the very creature that had slain his friend and his prentice?  The agonies it had given him, riven heart and riven flesh, were so much greater, and he had borne them.  Vaguely, Veylin was aware of the mad disorder of battle breaking out about them.  Fiends bellowed; Dwarves and Men shouted.  Yet all he saw was his one-handed foe.

It was drawing away from him.  Lame it might be, lame as he was himself, but fear drove it as fury drove him, and its legs were longer.  With all the strength of his hate, Veylin cast the heavy spear after it.

His knee nearly buckled under him as he pivoted on it, but he caught himself with little more than a bobble, even as he heard it screech.  Snatching his axe from its sheath, he continued forward.  A Man screamed, a shrill, piercing shriek that must be mortal, yet it was no more to him now than the voice of some strange bird.  Dwarves, too, cried out: some in triumph, some in wrath and pain.

In his red rage, there was only that great monster, heavy with another of its evil kind, writhing to paw at the spear lodged in its loins, its foul blood black in the moonlight.

Arðri leapt past him, axe raised, going for its gaunt haunch.  It backhanded him, part of the serpent-swift turn that brought it to face them, and the power of that blow was what finally quenched Veylin's headlong fury—his prentice, no lightweight even unarmed, flew a dozen paces before crashing to the ground.

Then, mad with its own pain, it attacked.

This time, the clutching talons did not sink into his flesh, foiled by mail; Bersi hewed at the arm and the fiend snatched it away, giving a shriek like tormented iron.  Vitr took this chance to dart in, cutting at the bulging belly—blood and other wetness spurted from the gash, and the creature clenched around his cousin like a fist, splintering the stained ivory of its fangs on steel before its frenzied snapping ripped off his helm.

Veylin hacked at whatever of the monster came within reach, as did Bersi beside him, but the gaping wounds they inflicted neither distracted nor stayed the creature.  Now Vitnir was attacking it as well, single-minded as Veylin had been, though it would avail his brother not at all.  Flinging Vitr's mangled body aside, the fiend struck out wildly, rising up high above them, snarling with its dripping red mouth.

Sable wings dropped out of the night sky and beat about its head, the black dagger of Craec's beak stabbing for those piggy, fell-fire eyes.  The raven seemed to be calling out, but whatever he would say was lost in the fiend's furious noise.

So was the pounding of hooves, until the horse was almost on them.  One glance was all Veylin dared spare: a tall, dark beast driven hard, white flashing about its eyes, coming straight for him; a Man crouched low over its shoulder, only reins in his hands.  Thyrnir—when had he joined them?—sprang forward and thrust Veylin aside, just as the rider cruelly wrenched the horse's head towards the fiend, and the two of them.

Veylin dropped and curled small.  Even so, a hoof struck him as the horse desperately fought to halt, though it was too close, going too fast.  The rider hit the ground nearby just before the squealing animal slammed into the fiend, bowling it over.  Rolling to his knees, hissing at the stab of staved ribs, Veylin snatched up his axe.

Partalan.  The swordsman's bald pate showed plain in the moonlight as he clambered to his feet, eyes on the thrashing tangle of limbs, the horse screaming and fiend squalling in a deafening cacophony that stood one's hair on end.  Suddenly, he darted forward, stooping to snatch something from the ground—

—and came up with Veylin's troll-spear in his hands.

He had thought the Man mad before; it was now proved beyond any doubt.  Yet it was a diabolically effective sort of derangement.  When the fiend struggled clear of his mount's dead weight, streaming with dark and darker blood, Partalan lunged forward, driving the spearhead into the monster's breast to the crosspiece.  It staggered back and the Man hung on, his own gapped teeth bared in furious resolution, but the barbs must have caught on ribs, for the spear did not pull free, and he was dragged after it.

Vitnir stepped in and began to hew at the leg on its handless side as if the fiend were a tree he would fell.  It kicked out, knocking him away; Partalan used the distraction to wrench the spear, grinding it in the wound.

Bersi laid a hand on Veylin's shoulder, and then hoisted him to his feet; Thyrnir stood on his right, axe ready, watching the fight for a likely opening.  When Halpan had said the fiends took a lot of killing, Veylin had not thought a Man, especially so young a Man, a good judge of such things . . . but perhaps he had merely repeated what the Half-Elven had told him.  For these were the hardest-dying things Veylin had ever known, even in all those years of fell war to avenge Thrór.  Even now, drenched in its own gore and with its guts tangling its feet, it found the strength to clout Partalan, the shortness of Veylin's spear leaving him within reach.

Though that strength was clearly waning, for though the swordsman reeled, he did not fall, though helmless, and he did not leave go of the spear.

Some way away, a collective shout of savage triumph rose; glancing over, Veylin saw a crowd around the still form of the other great fiend, and the Man of the Star with his long spear.

Thyrnir had left them.  His nephew circled around behind their monster, and as Partalan dodged another blow, twisting the spear with desperate strength, striving to finish the thing, Thyrnir buried his axe in its backbone to the helve.

He had to leap back as it dropped, leaving his weapon lodged in bone as it flailed with dying malice, tearing the earth with its talons and gnashed its broken tusks.  Its fall wrested the spear from Partalan's hands, and the Man hung back, not so crazed he would risk its clutch to retrieve it.

"Go on," Bersi urged Veylin.  "Finish it."

Bracing his ribs with his elbow, Veylin stumped up to the fiend's head.  Its thrashing was becoming more feeble, so it was no great feat to stare into its green-flamed eyes and strike off its bony, gaunt-cheeked head.

That bloody jaw snapped twice more, as a fish might gasp when beheaded, and then it was still.

Dead.

For a moment, Veylin stood over it, savoring what he could of his vengeance, then looked up and around.  "Are they all slain?" he asked.

Rekk came up, supporting Vitnir, who had a goodly dunt in his helm.  "Aye," he reported, with grim satisfaction, gazing around with a jaundiced eye.  "You would fix on the mother," he groused.  "Why do you insist on the hardest tasks?"

Limping to where the handless arm was flung out, Veylin kicked it.  "This is the fiend that attacked us last year."

"Ah."  Giving it a look of cold hatred, Rekk drew his axe and opened its belly, spilling the unborn onto the ground and splitting it with a single blow to be sure.  He stood a little longer, watching Thyrnir prying his axe from its back.  "That was a mighty blow," he praised him, "but it is rarely wise to disarm yourself in such a way."

"You had already slain the others," Thyrnir replied matter-of-factly, breaking his axe free with a grunt.  "It had to be dropped so we could give it its death blow."

Rekk clapped his shoulder and gazed on Partalan, who had taken hold of Veylin's spear again.  The Man's expression was closed, as if he expected to fight them next.  They were perhaps saved from ill words and worse actions by the arrival of Halpan, who hobbled up, bloodied and cradling an arm close to his chest.  "Partalan!" he exclaimed, in stark amazement.  "What are you doing here?"

"Avenging Halladan," the swordsman rasped.  "As my Lady demanded."  Setting his foot on the fiend's breast, he finally wrenched the spear free.

"There were other conditions, you said," Rekk observed, eyeing him.

"There were."  Partalan looked to Veylin, who stood over the fiend's head.

He planted his axehead on the ground and leaned heavily on the helve; weariness and wounds, old and new, were calling in their debts.  There were things more important than this Man's honor, however.  "How many have we lost?" Veylin asked Rekk.

The waterwright gazed on Vitr.  Vitnir had made his way to his brother's body and was kneeling over it, weeping and tearing his beard.  "Three.  And Aniel."

"Who are the other two?"

"Nyrað, and Thiolf, who defended him."

"Arðri is senseless," Bersi told him, having come from checking on his prentice.  "I do not like the sound of his breathing."

Would that Saelon was here.  Not that he would have wished her near the fiends.  Veylin looked at Halpan.  "Wounded?"

"Including you?" Rekk asked.

Veylin growled.

"Nordri is not so good; the others can walk."

They were perhaps a bit closer to Sulûnduban than Gunduzahar, but Halpan would find little relief there.  And Arðri should be moved as little as possible until he came to his senses . . . or not.  "When day comes," he told Rekk, "have the two fittest go to the mansion for ponies, and litters for the wounded.  Would a pony be of service to you?" Veylin asked Halpan delicately, hoping he did not give offense.  "I do not know what you would do with the body of your comrade."  Dwarves did not speak of such things with others.

The young Dúnadan shook his head and looked to the swordsman.  "It would be fitting to take Aniel down the glen, I think, and lay him by Halladan.  What say you, Partalan?"

"Aye," the other Man of Srathen Brethil said gruffly.  "He would have wished it so."

"Should you not sit, at least?" Halpan asked in turn.  "You look gravely wounded yourself."

"The blood is not mine," Veylin dismissed.

Partalan did not look convinced.  "You are not the one who must bear with our Lady if we carry ill news of you to her," he grumbled.

Veylin snorted.  If he took refuge in Sulûnduban, perhaps, until he had healed up.  Bending down—which was perhaps very unwise—he took the fiend's head by the scruff.  "You had best not carry any news to her, good or ill, without this," he declared, and tossed it to the Man.

"And the spear?" Partalan challenged, clutching the shaft tight.

It was not worth the trouble of taking it from him, so mad and fierce a fighter.  "Do you still maintain that Dwarves do naught but talk?"

"No."  He was brusque, but respectful.  "Nor can I deny that you have faced the _raugs_ , crippled though you are."

Veylin's smile was toothier than he had meant; the swordsman need not have added that last.  He was as tactless as Rekk.  "Then I will allow that you have earned it.  Take it to your Lady.  She had few enough defenders before," he said, with a sigh of regret for Aniel.  "Though you may believe otherwise, I would not strip her of those who remain."

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Notes

**Broom** ( _Cytisus scoparius_ ): a shrub common in sandy heaths and wasteground, with green stems and small leaves, flowering yellow in early summer.

**_Baruk Khazâd!  Khazâd ai-mênu!_ :** "Axes of the Dwarves!  The Dwarves are upon you!"  The traditional Dwarvish battle cry.


	17. Satisfaction

Uaithne ana Alban uaine,                                     _Brilliant pillars of green Alba,  
_ clann as cruaidhe ghabh bhaisteadh;                  _A race the hardiest that received baptism;  
_ 'ga roibh treas gacha tire,                                    _A race who won fight in every land_ ,  
Seabhaig lie ar ghaisgeadh,                               _Hawks of Islay for valour,_

Clann gan uabhar gan eadcair,                           _A race without arrogance, without injustice,  
_ nar ghabh acht eadail chogaidh;                         _Who seized naught save spoil of war;  
_ 'gar mheanmnach daoine uaisle,                         _Whose nobles were men of spirit,  
_ Is agar bhuaine bodaigh,                                    _And whose common men were most_  
                                                                                 steadfast,

Na slóigh as fearr san scruinne                           _The best people in the round world,  
_ a muirn a mire a bhfoghnamh;                            _their joyousness, their keenness, their  
                                                                                  effectiveness;  
_ní comhnairt bheith 'na bhféagmhais:                  _without them is no strength:  
_ ní h-éibhneas gan Chlainn Domhnaill.                  _it is no joy without Clan Donald._

\--Giolla Coluim Mac an Ollaimh

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Saelon paused to wipe her brow.  The day was warmer than usual at this season and the air close, as the sun drew up yesterday's rain.  It would have been more pleasant to pick hazelnuts in the shade of the river brakes or fish from a spray-misted rock by the shore, but the first could be safely left to Rian and the other lasses, and the second to the younger lads.  She could not trust them to do this.  A surprising amount of such particular work needed doing here, on the moor between the mountains and the sea, especially as Narbeleth wore on.  Gaernath was finding the hunting especially good hereabouts as well, she had learned.

Well over a fortnight ago, Veylin had left with the better part of their menfolk to slay the _raugs_ , and there had been no word.  Returning to the grubby work of digging tormentil roots, Saelon reminded herself that such a campaign would take time, if conducted with due care.  And she had no idea how long it might take to drain a tarn.  Yet her mind kept murmuring that three days should have taken them there, and three days brought them back, and surely it would not take so long to cut a drain as to delve a hall.

So whenever she straightened to ease her back or move to a new sprawl of stems, she would scan the land to the east, in hopes of some glimpse of them.  The heat and the moor's hazy damps often played tricks on the eyes, hinting at motion where there was none, so when she first caught a flicker on the hills, she shook her head at her fretful eagerness and made herself fill half the cloth before looking a second time.

Yes: a person—no, two; three, coming down towards the river.  Two tall, one short.  Saelon frowned.  The three who set out with Veylin were all tall.  Partalan was short, but he had left on horseback . . . and she had not thought to ever see him again.  Could they be strangers?  Or some other folk of Srathen Brethil?

Returning to her packbasket, she tucked away the clothful of roots and shouldered it, setting out to see.

When she was a few furlongs away, the tallest pointed her out to the others, and the next tallest waved energetically.  Halpan?  Oh, blessings, it _was_ Halpan—and she began to run.  Halpan, and Dírmaen, and Partalan—yes, Partalan, who bore a gruesome thing on a short-shafted spear, the price she had commanded for forgiveness.  Though all three had made some effort to mend and clean their clothes and themselves, they had been battered.  Halpan's right arm was in a sling, or she would have embraced him; Partalan had livid wounds on one side of his head, spaced like the talon-scores she had seen on Veylin a year ago.  "Aniel?" she demanded, heart poised to fall, though oh, oh so glad to see any of them alive, so little mauled.

Halpan threw his sound arm around her, packbasket and all.  "Slain," he said wearily, head resting briefly against hers.  "As are all the fiends.  We buried him by Halladan."

She was weeping, though whether more from grief or joy she could not say.  "Your arm—"

"Broken, though not badly.  Or," Halpan cut his gaze to the Ranger, with a wry smile, "so Dírmaen says.  If you are unhappy with how it has been tended, speak to him!"

Looking to the elder Dúnadan, apparently unscathed, Saelon said, "Thank you for caring for him."  The two had been furious with each other when they departed; they seemed companionable now.

Dírmaen bowed his dark head.  "Such a stalwart arm must be preserved, Lady."

Partalan snorted, and Saelon turned to her scabbed sheep, regarding him and the grisly trophy he carried with disapproval.  After a pause, he bowed his head and offered it to her.  "Lady."

She stared into the face of the _raug_ , its dun flesh sunken on the bony skull, lips shrunk back from the stained and broken teeth, giving it a horrible grimace.  So this was the monster that had haunted their nights and darkened their days; killed her brother and less-loved kin; drove her people from their long homes.  Under the light of the sun and days dead, it was hideous rather than fearful . . . yet having seen their work, she was glad they had all been slaughtered.

"This is the very one that prowled here last Ivanneth," Halpan told her, laying his hand alongside her pack strap.  "It had but a single hand, and was scarred by axeblows.  Veylin gave it its first wound, and took its head."

Resentment and disapproval of her friendship with Veylin had embittered the drunken slurs that goaded both Dwarves and Men to confront their foe . . . so Saelon was glad Halpan had spoken of him and spared her the asking.  "How did you come by it, then?" she pressed Partalan, eyes narrowed.

"He gave it to me, Lady, after we had satisfied each other on certain points," was his cool answer, "so that you might take me back into your service."

"And the spear?"  That was dearer than carrion, which might well be thrown to a cur to stop its growling.

"I found it lying, and put it to use."

Saelon glanced at Halpan and Dírmaen, who seemed to find nothing wanting in this explanation.  Men; it was if they belonged to a secret fellowship, devoted to the preservation of their honor.  Stepping closer, she reached out to finger Partalan's wounded temple: days old, yet still hot and oozing.  "These are festering.  I will have to see to them."

"Yes, Lady," he agreed, bearing the pain of her probing without flinching.

Well, a few flagons of ale would loosen his tongue, or Halpan's.  In truth, there ought to be tales enough among the three of them to occupy many an evening to come, though they might have to save some until the little ones were abed.

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Unagh wept, broken-hearted, in Rian's arms; Teig, that colorless man, slept for several nights among the hounds that were all the kin he had left now that his brother was slain.  The rest of them waked Aniel with a will, thrilling to the terror and tragedy of the tale of the battle against the _raugs_.

His oath hot in his heart, the huntsman had confronted the mightiest of the fell beasts, the one that had slain the old Chieftain, Halpan told them, seated on the board so all could hear him, the benches gathered around.  Her cousin had always been able to spin a tale, and this one required little embellishment, the sparest description of the monsters setting most to quaking with unforgotten horror.  Aniel had planted his spear in its flank, goring it deep; yet its terrible strength had torn the weapon from his hands.

Nordri and his followers strove to defend him, remembering his gifts of game: Nyrad, who had carved the birches in the wall there by the door, fell beside him, and Thiolf, hewing the red hand that cast down his master's son.  Muirne, who had taken such pleasure in the Dwarves' music during their own dark days, muffled her weeping in her shawl as Halpan told how the mason who so loved the stone of these cliffs had been trampled beneath the _raug_ 's pounding feet with the fallen, though the Dwarves said he would mend.

Dírmaen had reached them then, striking the fiend in the throat, but the shaft of his great spear shattered under its thrashing weight.  Saelon saw the gleam of wide-stretched eyes, pressed to a narrow crack at Maelchon's chamber door, where no crack should be, and the austere diffidence on the Ranger's lean face as Halpan extolled how the elder Dúnadan had struck at the thing with the head of the broken spear, keeping it from the injured Dwarves until Halpan was able to come to their aid, pinning the monster while Rekk and Ingi and Nyr hewed it to the bone.

His arm?  Broken by its death throes, he confessed, clasping the wounded limb to his breast, the thing perilous even when its breath rattled in its torn throat.

A valiant end for Aniel, and a tale that would be told when the rest of them were no more than mounds in the green grass.  They turned then to recounting Aniel's earlier exploits: Airil speaking of the black wolf and the silver one; Canand of the white bear in the winter of blizzards, when cattle died of cold in the sheltered strath, which slew the huntsman's fearless Huan; oh, boars and stags and hinds beyond count; and the little merlin that had shadowed him for near a year, an uncanny thing.  Perhaps it had been an omen.

Rian it was who demanded Partalan's tale the following night, to know—she said—whether he had avenged her father as he ought.  The scathing contempt of Saelon's dismissal they had all witnessed, and Rian dragged the rest of the story from him with what might have been artless curiosity, an ignorant girl needing things set out plain.  Yes, he had found the Dwarves, but Rekk had turned him away as if he were no better than a beggar.  He spent the days sleeping so he could ride to evade the _raugs_ by night, and told how they had pursued him when he dared the corrie to spy on the Dwarves' works under the moon.  The beginning of the battle he had watched from the ridgetop, until it was as desperate as his own desire.  And so it was from Partalan's grudging lips that Saelon heard of Veylin's ferocious assault on his bane, as crippled as himself, and the deaths of Vitr and Arðri, who had put themselves between them.

Partalan considered it meet that Veylin had stood in greatest need of aid, and that fate had brought the dwarf-lord's own spear into his hands.  That he had kept it afterwards, Saelon took as a sign that Veylin acknowledged his assistance, and so she allowed the swordsman his self-satisfaction.  It was too much to hope that he would ever like Dwarves—yet if he would guard her, as Halladan had bid, he must learn not to quarrel with them.  Hopefully, this would be lesson enough.

What else had been gained by such a costly victory?

Halpan's confidence, not least.  Battle had burnt away the doubts that gnawed at him and, sling notwithstanding, he carried himself with an assurance she had not seen before.  More sober—he missed Aniel's lively company, his nearest fellow in age—but less discontent.

When they had told their tales, and slept and ate as only battle-weary men could, a week of feted ease, he asked her, "What work am I fit for?"

They were sitting together in their chamber as she changed the dressing on his arm.  "At present?"  Saelon smiled at his youthful impatience.  "Not much.  It is knitting well, and I am pleased it pains you so little, but you must not use it yet."

"Can I ride?"

She considered, weighing his gravity.  "A mount you can manage one-handed, if you take care.  Why?  Where would you go?"

His pale grey eyes were steady on hers.  "I wish to take Partalan's trophies to Argonui, so he knows the evil is gone from Srathen Brethil and his father avenged."

"Surely Dírmaen could do that."

"He could," Halpan allowed, mouth close-pressed.  "But he is not of Srathen Brethil, and I want no doubt that we still hold our own—with or without the Chieftain's aid."

Tucking the tail of linen neatly in, Saelon asked, "What of your Ranger's star-brooch?"

"What of it?" he echoed dismissively.  "I am the only man left of our line.  Why should I serve others, when our own people are scattered and straitened?  Word must go to them of our conquest, so they can return to their homes if they wish."

Was this the fruit of his own brooding, or had he, too, taken Dwarvish counsel?  "Will they dare?"

"Some of the bolder, or more discontented, might venture it.  If they are unmolested, others will follow.  You would not want to leave this place," Halpan said matter-of-factly, "and unless the Elves shift him soon, Maelchon will be as hard to budge.  If enough come back, I might be your steward in Srathen Brethil, until Halmir comes of age."

Saelon gazed at him, surprised and pleased that he had given thought to such possibilities, evidence of a new maturity.  "Would you take Hanadan with you?"  He had promised Urwen that he would keep the boy by him.

Her cousin shook his head, with a wry smile.  "No.  Or at least not until he asks to go.  He looks to be another of you sea-loving Dúnedain."

As he was not, even if it did not haunt him.  "Partalan will go with you to the Chieftain?"

"You think he would be parted from his prize?"  Halpan grinned.  "Besides, how would I carry it, if I need this—" he held up his good hand "—for my horse?"

"Take Dírmaen as well," she advised.  "The less doubt in Argonui's mind the better."

That did not entirely please him, though he did not object.  "Did you miss us so little, that you would be rid of us all again so soon?"

"If I would keep any," she assured him, settling his sling, "it would be you."

"For the sake of my arm, no doubt."  Yet he was chaffing, as glad of her care as of her lack of objections.

Saelon laid her hand on his.  "Go with my blessing, and return as soon as you may."

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

A grey day of little wind: perfect for taking Rian out to teach her the art of collecting crottle.  Dyestuffs interested her more than healing herbs, save for the common simples, and though the work was tedious, the lass was delighted to get enough to color a batch of wool before the mist thickened to grizzle, and the grizzle to weeping rain.  Drawing her soon-sodden cloak close about her, Saelon found the thought of hearth and a posset—and the assurance that Fransag would have supper ready—made the drear and increasingly chill tramp homewards sufferable.  Winter was stretching its fingers towards them, but their supplies being ample, that did not seem dire.  A quiet season would be very welcome, after this last year.

The geese, taking advantage of the wet to reclaim their former domain from children and hounds, gabbled in mild welcome when they crossed the dooryard.  Leaving their dripping baskets under the overhang of the cliff, they wrung out their cloaks as best they could, then darted gratefully into the warmth of the hall.  Saelon drew a deep breath: fish stew and bannocks on the griddle.

For all its vexations, the company of others had its compensations.

"Here she is!" Maelchon said heartily, from the far side of the hearth.

Draping her wet cloak over the bench by the door, Saelon gazed at him, puzzled . . . until two Dwarves rose from the bench beside him.  Veylin's russet head could not be mistaken; but for her first steps towards them, she thought his chestnut-bearded companion was Vitr.  No—Vitr was dead.  This would be Vitnir.

"At your service, Masters," she greeted them, giving a proper curtsey despite her draggled state.  Most of her folk had already gathered in the hall for the evening meal and were watching closely.  To give the lie to slander, she must be more correct.  "I am glad to see," she added, noting the cups on the board behind them, "that Maelchon has made you welcome."  Since their guests were dry, they must have been here for some time.

Veylin bowed, and Vitnir beside.  "At yours and your family's, Lady.  Very kindly," Veylin assured her, "since his goodwife will not hear of us leaving before supper."

Her gratitude to Fransag increased.  "We would be honored to have you both at our board, after the deeds you have done in Srathen Brethil."

They bowed again.  "It will be a pleasure, Lady," Vitnir replied.

Saelon glanced at Veylin, wondering why he had not answered for them.  He was leaning on his blackthorn stick, perhaps more heavily than at their last meeting, but otherwise looked hale; his expression was warm, but little more than courtesy would dictate.

To avoid the temptation of particularity, she pardoned herself.  Reaching her chamber, she found Rian shaking the folds out of her one good gown, the dark heather-colored one that Urwen had given her.  "A little late for finery, is it not?" Saelon scoffed quietly as she looked for the water pail, not wanting to be overheard through the thin door.

"Nonsense!  How peculiar you are," Rian whispered back and shook her head at her, despairing.  "It will show how much you honor them."

"And feed the gossip, no doubt," Saelon muttered, stripping off the clinging wetness of her dress.

"Gossip?"

"Did you not hear what led to the quarrel at the feast?"  Dashing water on her face and arms, she sluiced off the dirt the rain had not, and sat down to wipe her muddy legs.

Rian rolled her eyes.  "The men?  They questioned each other's courage, did they not?"

Saelon fixed her niece with her gaze.  "You think I banished Partalan for no more than calling Veylin a cripple or coward?"  As furious as such talk made her, the first was honestly debateable and the second a matter on which men chose to judge for themselves.

"He didn't!" she gasped, when she realized what Saelon meant.  "Not in front of all of them!"

"Near enough."  When the swordsman had not faced her the next morning, she suspected he had touched on their rumored over-familiarity.  Of what other coarseness would he be ashamed?  It had taken her the better part of the afternoon to wring the confirmation she feared from Maelchon, loathe and mumbling.

"All the more reason," Rian declared, eyes snapping as she thrust the gown at her, "to hold yourself proudly.  It is not your behavior that has been shameful."

Not shameful, but certainly shameless.  How much worse the scandal would be if it were known that she had gone to Veylin's halls unescorted!  "I do not think Dírmaen would agree."

"Who is he, that he should govern you?" she fleered.  "Besides, he is not here."

An honorable man, whose good opinion she would like to have.  Saelon eyed Rian, strangely warmed by the lass's passion on her behalf, and took the gown.  "Very well, if you will not give me peace otherwise."

So it was that she presided over their simple meal in high state, with Veylin on her right hand and Maelchon taking Halpan's place on her left.  Her hopes of raising a general conversation were dashed, however: the husbandman was deep in earnest talk to Vitnir about farriery, while Rian, seated beyond Veylin, regaled Gaernath with the tale of their day.  "What brought you here, Master?" she asked Veylin, since silence would have been as marked as singling him out.

"Nothing of import, Lady," he replied, placidly buttering a bannock.  "A visit of courtesy, to take our leave."

"You are leaving?"  Saelon prayed that her tone was composed, for her wits took flight like a covey of birds.  Had the Dwarves remained here only to satisfy the demands of vengeance?  Had Partalan's offense been so great?  That great hall . . . and why should he have asked her about the tides?

Veylin supped the stew and did not meet the stare she turned swiftly away, remembering herself.  "For the season.  We have been long from our kin."

"Of course."  Foolish, to expect they would always be here: Dwarves were great travelers, moving from work to work.  Was not everyone surprised that they were here at all?  How quickly, after all those years alone, she had grown used to having neighbors.  "I am sorry, then, that Halpan is not here."

"Maelchon told us that he and the others have gone to your Chieftain, to make our victory known.  That is good," and he sounded well satisfied, "yet I did not think you would send him so soon, with his arm as it is."

"I would not have," she admitted, "but that he proposed it himself.  His arm should be well, if he is careful with it."  More careful, she hoped, than Veylin had been with his leg; he was lamer, but it was not her place to chastise him for it.  "Such news is best hot.  And I would not have him idle again."

Veylin made a concurring noise around his spoon.  "No," he observed, when he had cleared his mouth.  "He will rust, if he is not used."

"He gave satisfaction, in Srathen Brethil?"

"You have very worthy kinsmen, Lady," he replied gravely.  "I did not see him in the battle myself, but Rekk praises him, and you know what an uncommon thing that is."

Saelon smiled.  "Indeed."  Her heart lighter, she dared ask, "And Partalan?"

Finally, Veylin met her eye, a brief flash of acerbic respect.  "It must be a comfort to have such a Man between you and harm."

"Comfort is not the word I would use."

Reaching for the jug, he gave the merest breath of a chuff, a whisper of dry humor that would go no further.  When he had filled his cup and drank a draught, he gazed on the horn vessel.  "You ought, Lady," he suggested, turning the subject, "to consider getting something more worthy to serve your good ale in."

Here was an appropriate topic for conversation between a lady and a Dwarf.  "Which of your folk might accommodate me, Master?"

"We have a glazier with us," he replied, frowning thoughtfully at the cup in his hand, "though silver would suit your style better.  Alas, there is no silversmith among my company, though there are several who would make a good job of such a commission in Sulûnduban."  Veylin hesitated before asking delicately, "You have come into some wealth, I know.  Would it be enough for such a purchase?"

"How much might it be?"  What did she know of such things?  Silver was an heirloom among her kin, bought during fat times long past and carefully treasured.  Saelon suddenly wondered what had become of it.  Was it sitting in some chest still, in Srathen Brethil?  Had one of those who fled east taken it, to buy a new life in a strange land?  It had not come here, save Rian's simple ornaments.

"A pair—you might start with a pair," he explained, watching her expression closely, "and match them later—something like what Oddi gave you . . . not less than forty shillings."

She had not made so poor a bargain for the stock after all; the kine alone were worth nearly so much.  "I would not want to spend so much at present," she told him simply.  "I will keep it in mind, however."

If Veylin had been concerned not to wound her pride, her answer must have reassured him, for he promptly returned, "Then perhaps a matched set of wooden cups?  A modest outlay would give your table a much less—" he gazed significantly at the very assorted collection before them "—motley appearance, and Grani turns a block very prettily."

Thyrnir was Grani's prentice, was he not?  Saelon saw Maelchon and Vitnir were both attending to their conversation, as were others.  The mention of so great a sum as forty shillings must have caught on every ear it reached.  "If you return in the spring," she mused, "I suppose you will be wanting lamb."  A few ram-lambs would be small loss, and their dams could be milked dry.

"It would not be unwelcome."  Veylin gave a noncommittal shrug.  "Shall I suggest such a bargain to Grani?"

"If you like."  Between Rian and himself, they would make her appear a Lady yet.  "Be sure, Master," she cautioned, "that he knows he will not get more than two lambs from me, no matter how pretty the work."

"I will, Lady."

That led Maelchon to question him about the quantity of grain they might take, and soon the husbandman was strenuously insisting that wheat did not thrive so far north, much as he would like to oblige them, and that he had no notion of this stuff they called oats.  Saelon listened with interest as the two Dwarves pressed him to at least make a trial—either crop being more palatable than bere, save for making ale—and privately determined that if Maelchon would not, she would.  The growing season was at least two weeks longer here than in Srathen Brethil, due to the mild influence of the sea, and a small patch would cost little in effort.

When supper was finished, the little lads soon vanished from the hall, a sure sign that the rain had slackened.  Although Saelon invited and Fransag insisted, the Dwarves declined to stay the night: they had meant their visit to be brief, and there might be worry in the hall if they did not return.  The fiends being slain, what was to be feared from a ride over such well-known ways in the dusk, even if it was a trifle damp?

Gaernath went out to ready their ponies, which had been stabled in the byre-cave; Veylin and Vitnir collected their hoods and cloaks, and complimented Fransag on the meal.  By the time Saelon stepped out of her chamber with a dry cloak, they were passing through the door.  Hastening after them, she came out in time to hear Maelchon say, "Since we have a moment, Master, come, step down here and look at the beast, and you will see how urgent our need is."

With a slight sigh, Veylin eased himself onto the bench under the overhang as the black-bearded husbandman led his muttering cousin off to the byre-cave.  Looking up at her in the light of the lamp hung by the door, he asked, "Lady, will you try to impress upon Maelchon that Vitnir is not a village blacksmith?  He shoes our ponies at need, but he does not like the work.  I will try to find someone who would welcome it while we are at the mansion this winter, but I can make no promises.  You are far off the routes such Dwarves usually ride."

"Of course," she hastily assured him, as she drew her cloak around her.  The rain had stopped, but it was a raw evening, with hardly a star to break the gloom.  "I hope Master Vitnir will pardon him: he has never known a smith who was not a farrier, and the horses must be sound if we are to plough."

"Which is why I will try to find someone else," Veylin said with polite patience, then huffed.  "Now I must beg pardon.  Your folk are very good for Men, Saelon," he told her, cocking a wry brow, "but slow to take a hint.  I hope their dullness does not try you overmuch this winter."

She smiled down on him, amused by the likeness between the backhanded compliment and her folk's opinion of the Dwarves.  Very good, but . . . .  "A little dullness will not be unwelcome, though you can be sure that I will be glad to see you when you return."  Seizing the opportunity, she said, "Bring me some seed for what you would have us grow, and I will see how it fares.  I am used to small plots, while Maelchon thinks of furlongs."

"I will."  For a few breaths, Veylin twisted his gnarled stick in his hands.  "This sounds more like you.  I was beginning to think I had given offense."

Saelon's heart wrung.  "In what way, when you have accomplished the death of our foes and restored Halpan's pride?"  It was hopeless; she was as graceless in courtesy as the other gentilities, unable to converse lightly without sounding indifferent.  She had grown too used to pouring out the fullness of her heart to him, and could not strike the middle way.

"Your mind does not seem much eased."  He cocked his head, looking troubled.  "Does something yet oppress you?"

"Nothing I ought to complain of, after this last year."  Surely, having suffered slayings and strife, she could bear up under mere civility.

Veylin met her gaze directly now, his bearded mouth set in discontent.  "Will you at least assure me that this constraint is your own will?"

"I—"  After what Partalan had said to him at the feast, could he be ignorant of the reasons for her reserve?  The insinuations had enraged him, the one time she had dared speak of them.  "I would have my peoples' respect."

Bristling, his ruddy brows plunged in a fierce scowl.  "They withhold it still?"

"And them at peace with you."

Silence; his deep-set eyes hooded, hidden from her and the lamp's light; one brawny hand clenched over the other on the head of his stick.  "If you choose to conform to their wishes, for your own sake," he rumbled, so low that, near as she stood, she had to strain to catch his words, "I will not quarrel with you.  But do not do so for mine.  We are used to the ill-will of Men; so much so that we pay it little heed.  It is their esteem that is rare."

Was that why he held her in such regard, because she was so singular?  Yet so was he: she had not found her own kind as generous in spirit.  Daring his displeasure, for she knew he misliked being touched, she laid light fingers on his shoulder.  As she had hoped, it brought his gaze back to hers.  "It might be less so, if more Dwarves were of your temper.  What can we do, to cultivate goodwill as well as more palatable corn?"

That brought a rueful smile to his dour face.  "Cultivation I must leave to the mistress of herbs."  Chafing his knee, he sighed.  "I have gone to some . . . pains to forge this alliance and ensure that my temper—" an amused sniff "—is properly respected, but I have no other counsel to give.  How you, as a Lady, might keep your froward followers in their place, I do not know."

"Then," Saelon reflected, with a shrug, "I will have something to exercise my wits while you are away, so you do not find me dull-witted when next we meet."

"That is unlikely."

Gaernath's laughter gave ample warning for her to withdraw her hand, so there could be no cause for comment when the others returned with the ponies, Hanadan leading Veylin's sorrel.  Saelon smiled.  Here was one whose regard could be in no doubt.  "Have you come to see our guests off, Hanadan?"

"Yes."  The child drew himself up proudly; beyond him, she saw a kindly smirk on Gaernath's face and an approving smile on Maelchon's.  "I am the Dúnadan until my uncle returns.  He told me so."

Veylin rose and bowed to him.  "When I see Halpan next, I will tell him how well you attended to your duty."

Hanadan gave a bobbing bow and giggled.  Saelon thought Vitnir snorted as he swung into the saddle, but Veylin maintained his gravity as he turned to her.  "Lady.  May you and your folk find this winter kindlier than the last."

She curtseyed in return.  "And a prosperous one to you, Masters.  Fare you well."  Once Veylin had mounted and taken his reins, she stepped forward and drew Hanadan into her arms, to be sure he would not chase after them as they rode off into the dark.

"When will he see Halpan next?" the child wanted to know.

There was only the clack of a hoof finding stone; otherwise the mud of the track muffled their going.  "Spring, most like."

"Spring!" Hanadan protested.  "That's forever!"

Gaernath ruffled his dark hair, grinning.  "Not quite so long.  It will be here before you know it."

Saelon chuckled as Hanadan grumbled, unconvinced.  "Never fear, I will be sure Halpan hears of your courtesy."  Yes, it would be longer than they could wish, but there was work enough to fill the days and the future to give thought to.  Would the Elves leave them here in peace, when it was known that Srathen Brethil had been cleared?  No doubt they would find spring upon them soon enough.

* † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † * † *

Notes

**Tormentil** ( _Potentilla erecta_ ): a medicinal herb also used for dying (red shades) and tanning.

**Merlin** ( _Falco columbarius_ ): a small, dark-colored falcon.

**Crottle** : Scots, [lichens ](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/sco/5/5b/230px-N2_Lichen.jpg)used for dying.  Saelon and Rian are collecting _[Ochrelechia tartarea](http://www.britishlichens.co.uk/species/Ochrolechia%20tartarea%20small.JPG)_ , the species that, when fermented, produces Cudbear dye, giving shades of purple, red, or violet.

**Glazier** : one who makes glass.

**Shillings** : a shilling was worth twelve silver pennies.  See "Coinage" in the [Dûnhebaid Dictionary](http://astele.co.uk/stories/chapter_view.cfm?stid=7676&SPOrdinal=1).  If nothing else, this should clearly illustrate the effects of inflation!

**"turns a block"** : works wood on a lathe, to produce rounded forms.  Lathes have been used in woodworking for about as long as wheels have been used to throw pots—the mechanical principle is, after all, the same.

**Wheat and oats** : while several varieties of wheat (especially emmer, _Triticum dicoccum_ , and spelt, _Triticum spelta_ ) were grown in Scotland during warmer periods in prehistory, it has not been a widespread crop since the Bronze Age.  As for oats, despite the strong association between Scotland and oatmeal, this crop was not grown there until the late Iron Age and did not become common until the early medieval period.  On the West Highland coast, _Avena strigosa_ , the black or bristle oat, was the usual variety planted, rather than _Avena sativa_ , the common oat.


End file.
